


In Reverse

by Elialys



Series: In Reverse [1]
Category: Fringe
Genre: Angst, Child Death, Drama, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Family Drama, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-21
Updated: 2013-07-25
Packaged: 2017-11-02 08:14:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 21
Words: 59,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/366887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elialys/pseuds/Elialys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set in the Future!Verse. Peter's and Olivia's life between 2011 and 2026. </p><p>'And he remembers her face, from those distant times when guilt had literally been devouring him; guilt over killing all those people, over killing so many innocents, over killing his own son. She hadn't said it wasn't his fault, hadn't tried to make him see the bright side of things. She had just held him, her eyes reflecting his soul-deep pain, soft fingers on his face with her nose bumping his, like it often was. </p><p>"We still have each other…" She had murmured against his lips. "As selfish as it might sound. We still have each other, Peter."</p><p>Who does he have, now?'</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I.

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written during the summer hiatus between season 3 and season 4. Don't be deceived by the cheesy opening scene, this is definitely not cheesy.

**I.**

_Holding her around the waist from behind, he leads her forward, stopping only when they reach the perfect spot. She's still smiling softly as he brings his hands up to unfold the small scarf he has tied up over her eyes a while ago now._

_Though not blindfolded anymore, Olivia keeps her eyes closed, a good player, only raising an eyebrow as she asks: "Are you done being cryptic? Can I open my eyes?" She sounds definitely more amused than anything else, which is good._

_He slides a hand back around her waist, over the soft fabric of that gorgeous black dress she has put on for the occasion –the restaurant they had dinner at was quite fancy. He brings her closer against him, unconsciously breathing in her scent. "Go ahead and look," he whispers in her ear. "Happy Anniversary."_

_And she does. She stares, and the smile turns into pursed lips, a confused frown contracting her brow. She turns her head, looking up at him. "Is this supposed to be…my gift?"_

" _Yup," he approves, with a goofy grin, loving how perplexed she looks._

_She turns her eyes back to what is in front of them. "You're offering me…a hotel room's window?"_

_He chuckles in her hair. "A very_ expensive _hotel room's window, if I may say. As much as I love their curtains, your gift will not actually show up for another…" he looks at his watch. "Eight hours."_

_She's looking at him again, still obviously confused about what he means exactly. "What's in eight hours?" she can't help but ask._

_He kisses her temple, nuzzling his nose on her cheekbone, which causes her frown to finally disappear as she smiles softly again. "Sunrise is in eight hours," he says in her ear. "I've asked experts, and they all agree. This place still has the most beautiful naturally colored sunrise in the country."_

_There she goes, pursing her lips again. "Oh," she says. "Peter, are you offering me the_ sunrise _?"_

" _Our Ten-Year Anniversary, honey, I had to do something big." He's not upset by her lack of joyful reaction; he_ knows _her, and he expected nothing less from her._

" _Is this you bringing up that silly conversation we once had about me liking the sunrise again?" He nods with a cheeky smile. "You're never gonna let me forget that I said that, are you?"_

" _Nope!" He says kissing her cheek this time, and she turns completely in his arms, wrapping hers around his waist and he mimics her. "I'll bring it up again for our twentieth anniversary."_

_She chuckles, looking around the room, which is a very nice room indeed, before bringing her gaze back to his. "Ten years, uh? Doesn't it make you feel…"_

"… _lucky?" He asks._

" _I was gonna say 'old', but yes, I feel very lucky," she agrees, bringing her hands up to his cheeks and patting them a little mockingly. "I have such a romantic husband. I would have been happy with just a piece of jewelry though, you know?"_

_He grabs one of her hands and brings it to his mouth, kissing her knuckles. "First, you never wear any of the jewelry I give you."_

" _I'm wearing the earrings you gave me last Christmas right now," she objects._

" _Second," he continues as if she hasn't spoken. "I lied. Well no, not exactly. I want us to see that beautiful sunrise, but I'm fully planning on us enjoying that expensive hotel room for the next eight hours, first."_

_She's patting his cheek again. "Suuure. However, don't be surprised if after the first four of five hours, you remember that you're not thirty-five anymore." She looks up behind his shoulder then, stretching her neck. "I'm quite liking that mirror over the bed, though."_

_Her exposed neck is simply too tempting. He brings his head down, grazing his lips over a favorite spot of hers on her sensitive skin, and he is rewarded when her hand leaves his cheek to sink into his hair. He lets go of her other hand so she can do whatever she wants with it, while his own decidedly slips behind her to bring her closer._

_But her hand falls limp on her side, and soon, so does the other one, as her whole body simply crumples in his arms. He is so shocked and unprepared that, even though she weighs next to nothing, he loses his balance and stumbles backwards. That's when he feels it, trickling from the back of her head onto his hand still on her back. Thick and warm._

_He falls with her onto the floor, and her face finally comes into view, offering him the most horrifying sight he has ever been forced to witness. There is a round, red, bloody hole where a frown used to be, only minutes ago. Her eyes, glassy and wide open, stare but do not see anymore. A terrifying scream builds up within his chest, ready to come out and pierce the air with his despair and-_

Peter jerks awake at the feel of warm fingers on his face, and both his hands desperately come up to grab them, "Olivia!" he half-moans, half-exhales.

The hand leaves his cheek, squeezing his trembling fingers, and she speaks then. "I'm sorry, Peter, it's me."

He recognizes her voice just as his foggy, drunken brain finally takes in the face hovering over him.

Astrid.

He remembers then. It will never be Olivia again.

Olivia is dead.

He has no control over what happens next, as this realization grips his guts and twists them, twists them so hard and violently that he has no other choice than to roll over on his side as his body dry-heaves forcefully, once, twice, three times. But he has no food to throw up, he hasn't eaten in over two days. And yet he is trying, as if his whole being was desperately attempting to get rid of that deep, smothering anguish and pain poisoning his insides. But all that comes up is some astringent alcohol that burns the back of his throat. He spits a mouthful of it on the floor, ignoring the fact that it lands only inches away from Astrid's feet. He is far beyond caring, though, stuck somewhere between being sickeningly drunk and badly hung-over.

Not to mention heart-broken.

Apparently, Astrid doesn't care either, because when his useless hiccups eventually die off, he feels her hands on him again, pushing him gently back onto the couch, and he lies back, his head throbbing.

"Don't move, I'll be right back," she says in a soft voice, and he hears her foot steps as she enters the kitchen, hears her turn the water on, and he forces himself to focus on every sound she makes so he doesn't have to think. He cannot think, he just can't.

But the sound of her shoes on the floor instantly reminds him of how many times he has seen Olivia enter the house and simply kick her high heels off with a contented sigh, leaving them be wherever they might land, which was pretty much all over the place.

He opens his eyes, which feel feverish in their sockets, and his blurry gaze falls on the bottle sitting there on the coffee table. He reaches for it, quite impressed when he manages to grab it on his first try. He opens it and is about to bring it to his mouth when Astrid, who has made her way back to him incredibly fast, stops his arm.

"Peter, don't," she says, trying to sound firm, but her voice is hoarse and shaky.

"Why are you even here?" he asks then, and he sounds like an old drunk, trying to get away from her grip, but she's surprisingly stronger than him.

"The funeral is in a few hours, Peter," she says in a whisper. "We need to get you ready."

The mention of what is to come is enough to drain all energy from his limbs, and she finally gets the bottle away from his fingers, his head falling back on the couch, throbbing more painfully than ever. After another moment of silence, he feels a cold, wet cloth on his forehead. He opens his eyes again, focusing on her face.

Even in the darkness of the room, she looks pale, dark shadows under red eyes. He guesses he isn't the only one who has lost the ability to really sleep.

"I'm sorry," he whispers then, and his voice cracks as he speaks, because it's not to _her_ he wants to say those words, but he has no choice, there's no escape, no solution.

She meets his gaze, and whatever his eyes are displaying, it causes hers to instantly fill up with tears.

"For what?" she asks as softly, still gently cleaning his sweaty face, and he has to admit that the coolness feels almost good.

A lump forms in his throat as he tries to answer. It takes him a few excruciating seconds, but the words finally come out. "Even all ranked up, you end up having to take care of some sick, useless Bishop man."

She smiles at him then, and it is a heartbreaking smile really, her eyes so full of tears that he wonders how on earth they aren't streaming down her face yet. She brings her other hand to his face, soft, warm palm on his messy stubble, her thumb gently caressing his skin.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she says softly. "All I've ever done was take care of the people I love. It hasn't changed."

He has to close his eyes then, almost wanting to ask her to take her hand away, because it feels so familiar and yet so painfully different; he isn't even surprised when he feels his own tears slipping out from under his closed eyelids, soon pooling into his ears.

"You need to shower and dress," she said then, trying to sound less emotional, and almost succeeding.

But he shakes his head. "I can't. I can't go in there."

"Where?"

He opens his eyes again. She has put the bottle back down on the coffee table. "The bedroom," he says, reaching out for it again.

"Peter," she tries to stop him but he shakes her hand off quite roughly, managing to sit up, ignoring her disapproving, worried look. "You're still drunk. You need to sober up, not the other way around."

He opens the bottle, and looks her square in the eyes when he says: "My wife is dead, Astrid. I think I'm allowed this kind of behavior." And he takes a long sip from the bottle, pretending that the pain he feels inside is caused by the burning alcohol going down his throat.

She sighs, defeated, and moves from her crouching position to sit on the coffee table, watching him take a few more sips.

"I hate to ask you this but…Have you thought about what you're going to say, for her eulogy?"

The alcohol tastes absolutely disgusting all of the sudden and his arm falls back, as he shakes his head. "I'll improvise." Incredibly, he chuckles then. "I've always been so good at bullshitting my way through public speeches."

He meets her eyes then, and she doesn't look amused. She doesn't look offended either. He closes his eyes again, painfully. Everything hurts.

"How do you sum up eighteen years of your life in a few minutes speech?" he whispers then, his heart pounding hard, so hard that it feels like it's trying to crawl its way out of his throat. "How do you sum up Olivia in a speech?" At the mention of her name, tears start rolling down his face again, and again, he doesn't care.

Tears. Funny thing, really. Tiny little drops of salty water. It had been quite a few years since he had cried himself, but he remembers quite painfully all the times _she_ had cried.

He takes another long gulp of alcohol. Maybe if he drinks enough he'll get completely dehydrated, and he won't be able to cry anymore, so he can take his thoughts away from…well, everything.

But it's pointless.

"Have you ever seen Olivia cry of joy?" he asks then, quite randomly, and yet not really, opening his eyes again and meeting Astrid's sad gaze.

A small smile appears on her lips, and she shakes her head slowly. "I don't think I've ever seen Olivia cry at all, to be honest."

He chuckles, but really, he just wants to sob. "No, she isn't the kind of person who likes to display that sort of 'weakness'. But I guess when you spend so many years of your life with someone, you get to see every aspect of them, even the ones they want to keep hidden."

He closes his eyes again and really, he can just _see_ her as if she was in front of him. He clings to that picture his mind has conjured, because there isn't any physical picture of her around for him to look at, and not for the first time, he wishes he had insisted more often, had been more pushy, more convincing, so they could have had those picture frames all around their home.

Stupid wishful thinking.

"Her cheeks get all flushed, you know?" he whispers then, talking more to that image of Olivia he's seeing in his head than to the actual woman sitting in front of him. "And her eyes gets…so _big_ , and green. Like…the tears she tries to keep in there are magnifying them. And you just want to die."

He chuckles again but the sound turns into a broken sob, and he hastily brings the bottle up to his mouth to shut himself up, drinking long, the world spinning, and he doesn't give a damn.

"She cried happy tears once, though," he says after another long stretch of silence, and that distant memory is actually mingled with so much pain, so many feelings that he hasn't really allowed himself to feel in years, that it actually hurts more than thinking about all those times she cried out of despair.

But he remembers her so well, oh so well, so much younger, so genuinely happy, and he had been happy, too.

"She had the most beautiful smile on her face," he whispers then, and the ephemeral image in his mind offers him that same smile, eyes glimmering with tears and joy and hope.

And then, it simply vanishes. She vanishes.

She will never smile again.

_(May 2026)_


	2. II.

**II.**

Less than thirty minutes after he wakes up, Peter decides that fate is one sadistic bitch.

It isn't the first time that he and Olivia find themselves in the Fringe Division Hospital at the same time. There is one main difference today, though. He has been placed in one of these rooms you automatically get when you're married to the Head of the Division, even though his injuries are minimal.

Olivia has been placed in the morgue.

And people won't let him see her at first.

Doctors say he needs to stay in bed, lying down, just in case, second trauma in two days, risks of sudden complications, all nonsense. He would surely have ended up punching one of them in the face if Ella hadn't showed up.

The only reason why he doesn't let his anger and despair out on her as well is because even though she's trying to keep a strong face on, she's endlessly _crying_ ; tears are streaming down her face, and she looks like she's seven again, shaky and terrified, and how could he ever get angry at her?

" _Peter, you shouldn't…"_ She tries to keep him away from the morgue, too.

She wants to keep him away from that vision haunting her eyes right now, those eyes that have always resembled her aunt's so much, now more than ever, darkened for the rest of her life by this new tragedy. She has seen death, and even though it should be the other way around, she's trying to protect _him_.

Damn Dunhams, always so fierce.

But he doesn't listen of course. No one in this dying universe can keep him away from her.

That is how he finds himself standing next to an autopsy table, frozen to the core.

And yet he knows that she will forever be colder than him, now.

His entire being and soul are screaming as he stares and stares and stares. If it hadn't been for the deafening silence and the thick stillness of the room, so heavy that he could almost touch it, he would probably be screaming. Or maybe weeping over her dead body, at least.

But he just stands there, stiff, immobile. The only thing letting him know that _he_ is still alive is how _painful_ each and every breath he takes is. The thick air comes down his lung and it is scorching him and freezing him at the same time, and when he exhales, he feels like his guts are coming out as well.

Olivia doesn't breathe anymore.

He tries to ignore the dark spot in the middle of her forehead, but the contrast between this deathly mark and her pale, pale skin is so great that ignoring it would be almost preposterous. It's not even that big, just incredibly dark. In a floating instant of incomprehension, he wonders how such a tiny dot could possibly have ripped him off of what he cherishes the most in his life.

Peter has experienced grief before, but it has never felt so sudden and so raw, simply unbearable. He feels like right here and now, staring at her dead body, he is going through the five proverbial stages.

He cannot believe she's dead. It's simply _not_ possible. And he would give anything, _anything_ , to see her open her eyes just one more time, and it is so infuriating, this is all so unfair and incomprehensible, she was still smiling at him hours ago, she shouldn't have been killed, shouldn't have died like that, for a choice _he_ made, a choice that is still haunting him to this very day.

And he remembers her face, from those distant times when guilt had literally been devouring him; guilt over killing all those people, over killing so many innocents, over killing his own _son_. She hadn't said it wasn't his fault, hadn't tried to make him see the bright side of things.

She had just held him, her eyes reflecting his soul-deep pain, soft fingers on his face with her nose bumping his, like it often was.

" _We still have each other…"_ She had murmured against his lips. " _As selfish as it might sound. We still have each other, Peter."_

Who does he have, now?

His cold, impassive mask finally dissolves as a grimace of pure agony contracts his face, his trembling fingers reaching out for her cheek. But he stops his hand inches away from that skin he has rarely seen so pale, because he knows how cold she will be under his touch and he is not ready, he is not ready.

He embraces denial, then, embraces it whole.

Olivia doesn't simply _die_.

Olivia defies ordinary, defies rules, defies gravity.

Olivia has defied Death before.

He had been ready to give her up, so many years ago, the only thing keeping her 'alive' being those machines connected to her body. Had it hurt that much, back then?

Is pain proportional to the numbers of years you spend loving someone?

That night in the hospital, he had realized just how much she had come to mean to him within a short year, and the idea of seeing her go forever had been excruciating.

Does it hurt more deeply, seventeen years later? After almost eleven years of marriage? He guesses it does.

She had become his everything a long time ago, and while he might have tried to fight it back then, when he still foolishly believed that he could be _one_ and not half of a _whole_ , he had stopped fighting long before the smell of her skin had become the first thing he breathed every morning.

He stares and stares, begging her to defy Death for him one more time. She has to, doesn't she?

She can't leave him like that.

And so he leans over her, and murmurs so close to her face: "Goodbye, Olivia."

He waits.

And he waits.

But the jolt never comes. She never wakes up.

She just lies there, still and cold.

And her face _is_ cold, so cold, as he finally leans his forehead against the top of her head, and the first tears come at last. They roll and fall and slide down on her cheek.

Maybe she's crying for him, too.

_(May 2026)_


	3. III.

**  
III.**

Peter does get lucky that night.

He doesn't think it has anything to do with that drawing though, not at first anyway. He's thinking those two glasses of wine she drank during dinner are more of a factor, along with the fact that he was badly injured the previous night, which always tends to lead them to some intense physical reunion. The fact that he can think of it as a recurrent situation is showing of how hectic their lives can be at times.

Living in a crumbling world isn't without risk.

And yet, lost into the feel of her, when everything is entangled limbs, crumpled sheets and sweaty skin, he can tell that there is more on her mind than Fringe Events and massive blood loss.

When you spend so many years of your life with someone, your learn to read them and their body language, absorbing everything, knowing them by heart, better than you know the first words on the very first page of your favorite book.

Of course, Peter doesn't really have anything to compare this with. Before Olivia, his longest relationship had lasted four months. He simply assumes that it is how everybody feels, and if they don't, he doesn't give a damn, because he wouldn't want it any other way. There is something extremely comforting in knowing her so well, in living in this routine with her, which is too often disturbed by horrific events none of them are able to prevent. It makes the quiet evenings spent cuddled on the couch doing nothing but watching TV that much more enjoyable.

Making love is no different.

It's like they are playing music, years after years, always following the same notes they have both written on a parchment sheet with ink made of kisses and sighs. Sometimes, they just follow the score. At other times, they improvise, classical turning into jazz, increasing the tempo or lowering the octave.

Together they write beautiful symphonies that no one else but them will ever listen to, as it should always be.

And tonight, Olivia is off beat.

Well, it's not that she's _off beat_ as much as she seems driven by something raw he cannot grasp, but it's alright. He lets her be the leader without any resistance, her nails digging so hard into the skin of his back that she might draw blood, and she doesn't loosen her grip until that fleeting instant that follows her release, when bones turn into cotton, all souls at peace.

Forehead to forehead, they stare at each other; all is silent now, if not for their ragged breathing that will soon go back to normal. And yet, her body may have quieted down, he still sees it in her eyes. His fingers leave her hair to gently caress her rosy cheek.

"What's wrong?" He asks quietly, and she closes her eyes.

A salty drop slides down her temple then, and maybe it is sweat, maybe it isn't. His finger brushes that tear away, just before she starts moving beneath him, indicating that it is time for him to stop crushing her. But as they often do, they simply roll on their sides and tangle up some more, the damp skin of her back against the damp skin of his chest, fingers intertwined near her heartbeat, and he breathes into her hair.

She doesn't say anything, and that is what makes him quickly understand what this is about. They are always honest with each other, trying to talk things out, as bad as it can be at times. They have learned in the early days of their relationship that honesty is one powerful cement. While the lack of it can make their very foundation shiver and quake, even the toughest admissions eventually strengthen their bond.

But no couple ever really achieves perfection, even after years of learning and trying, and though they might not exactly be the definition of 'normal', they still fall prey to ordinary faults.

Peter, for example, tends to tell her everything, but not _exactly_ right away. At times, he feels like he needs to deal with certain matters alone at first before letting her in; or he feels like she can be spared the additional emotional baggage. Olivia, on the other hand, has the habit of keeping everything hidden inside, not because she doesn't want to open up, but because that is how she has learned to deal with her emotions, persuading herself that she's ' _fine_ ', until the day she's not.

And they have taboos.

There are subjects they don't discuss, because one of them simply cannot bear it, and the other respect and accept it. And it's funny really, come to think of it, as those matters still affect them both several times a year –the only times they come close to really acknowledging each other's pain. But they live their life around those days, unspoken, yet never forgotten. They only get addressed when the elephant in the room simply gets too big to be ignored.

Like it had been the case tonight while they were making dinner.

He knows it would be wiser not to say anything, not to bring it up again; she's still quiet, evidence that she will not, as always, force the subject on him. And yet he _knows_ deep inside how much she needs to have this conversation they never had. Hundreds of them, really.

And it's her silence that finally pushes him to speak softly against her neck.

"It's the drawing, isn't it?"

She remains silent for a few more moments, moments that might actually turn into minutes; it doesn't matter. Time doesn't matter.

They have all the time in the world.

He knows her mind is reeling with the untold, though, working out words maybe, by the way her fingers are playing with his, binding them, caressing them, squeezing them.

"She would be almost twelve…" She whispers at last, piercing the silence of the room. And she says no more.

Peter closes his eyes tight. There it is, crawling back into him so fast, pressing down on his lungs and heart. That dread he feels about the entire subject, a feeling close to cowardice really, since it almost makes him want to leave the bed. And he hates himself for being so _incapable_ of dealing with this, even after all these years, _twelve_ freaking years.

He feels like a hypocrite, like a fake, willing at times to daydream with her about the family they should be having, all the while unable to even _think_ about the one they almost had.

He has to speak, now. He brought it up again when she was ready to let it go; he brought it up knowing that she was more than likely to say something about-

He has to say something. And so Peter does what he does best when emotionally unable to cope.

He _lights_ _things up._

"Almost a teenager, uh? She would without a doubt be spending her days bossing me around like her mother does."

He says the words, but there is no image in his mind. They could be talking about the hopes and fears they would be having for that child, things had been different. He could be imagining her eyes, the color of her hair, and the shape of her face.

But he sees nothing and utters those shallow words instead.

Her fingers stop moving over his, and he waits, somehow grateful for the fact that they are not facing each other; he doesn't feel brave enough to look into her eyes.

Once again, it is her turn to decide on what to do, on which way she should take this conversation that has been doomed from the moment she has shed that tear.

And so she lets it go, whispering words just as shallow.

"And abusing sarcasm like her father."

They don't share another word.

' _When the world gets better_ ,' he thinks, wishing he could tell this to her, his fingers curling closer to her heart, as if quietly apologizing for his weakness. ' _When the world gets better and we can try again, we'll talk about her, I promise. We'll talk about her.'_

But what he doesn't know is that his world, the one he has not destroyed years ago, the one he is still holding in his arms, doesn't have the luxury of time anymore.

She's about to witness her last sunrise.

_(May 2026)_


	4. IV.

**IV.**

Peter closes the microwave's door a bit too forcefully, making the entire house shake as Olivia would say. He immediately hears her voice in his head.

' _Could you stop blowing off steam on the appliances? We already had to replace the dishwasher last month because you keep on using your feet rather than your hand to close it.'_

But since she's not _here_ at the moment and that is precisely the reason why he's being a little too rough, he ignores that wise voice and taps the buttons just as harshly. It's late, he's hungry, and another glance at his cell phone on the counter informs him that she hasn't sent him anything else. He'd received her last text over twenty minutes now, the one saying saying ' _Be home in 5'._ Of course, in Olivia's workaholic mind, five minutes often turns into twenty. Or forty. And he's used to it, truly. He is used to ordering dinner and having to reheat it an hour later when she finally arrives.

Except that today isn't a good day. It never is, never will be, and she knows it.

And yet, she's late.

As he starts pouring another box of cold Chinese food into a dish, next on the line to go into the microwave, he tries and forces himself to calm down, perfectly aware of the fact that his irritation is pointless, and that Olivia isn't doing this on purpose. She knows what day it is, and it isn't her fault if she had to spend the day at this big meeting in Philadelphia. But when he's irritated, he gets very self-centered, and when he gets self-centered, he likes to have his wife around.

Great. Now he sounds like a male chauvinist even to his inner self.

Before his mood can deteriorate even more, he hears the front door open behind him, along with the sound of her voice, and he turns around as she comes in; her arms full of files, earpiece on, she's in the middle of a conversation.

"…tine's day's in three days, if he wanted to be romantic, he would take you out to a fancy restaurant."

He watches as she skillfully gets rid of her right heel with the help of her other foot, sending the shoe flying on the side, _clunck_ , causing her to lose a few inches in height, and yet she still manages to keep her balance, even with her arms full as they are. She quickly does the same with her other heel, _clunk_ , and he can't help but clench his teeth a little, knowing that he will be the one picking them up later.

"I'm not being pessimistic sweetie, I'm being realistic," she continues, now dropping the pile of files onto the coffee table, before she starts unbuttoning her jacket.

Doing so, she finally turns around to face him, offering him a sweet, teasing smile. Despite his bad mood, he's powerless when it comes to her smile, and he can't help but give her a small smile of his own.

"Listen, all I'm saying is that receiving that kind of message at that time of day has 'booty call' written at the end of it, in not so small letters."

As she throws her jacket on the couch, she makes a face, as if her interlocutor –who he's pretty sure is Ella- has just screamed in her ear. "What?"

She joins him in the kitchen, still focused on her conversation though, and he watches _almost_ amused has she makes another face. "Excuse me? Ella Dunham, how old do you think I am, exactly?"

She faces him and shakes her head in disbelief. "What about _having_ it?" She crinkles her nose, clearly amused by whatever reaction she's getting from her niece, and for the first time of the day, Peter relaxes a little, offering her a smile that is much more sincere. "Hey, you're the one who called me."

She comes closer to him and pushes herself up on her toes, obviously awaiting her greeting kiss, but before he can give it to her, she moves her head away with an amused frown. "Since when am I the person to call when it comes to relationships?" She puts her hands on his chest, distractingly, before looking up at him again with a smirk. "Ah, but you know, most of the time, I think Peter and I are just a fluke." He gives her a kiss then, slightly nibbling her bottom lip to prove just how much of a fluke he is, and he feels her smile against his lips.

She forces herself to move away though, still listening to Ella; she dips a finger into the cold dish of boneless spare ribs, before bringing it up to her mouth to get the sweet sauce off her finger. "He knows. He heard me, he's standing right next to me." She licks her lips and looks at him again, her face breaking into another soft smile. "Yes, I'm pretty sure he still loves me."

He frowns, tilting his head from side to side as if unsure, and as he turns to the microwave to get the food out, she playfully slaps his shoulder. "Okay honey, gotta go, my man is starving. Do whatever you want, just be careful okay?" She chuckles. "I was talking about you not getting emotionally hurt, but that too, yes. Love you too, bye."

He turns around to put the bowl on the counter as she navigates around him to put the other dish in the microwave, setting the timer on. "Sorry it took me so long to get home, there was a collision on the way, the road was blocked and I had to take to the longer way."

"I figured," he lied, offering her a tight smile, before starting to pour some of the warm food on their plates.

Silence falls, the only sounds in the room being the buzzing of the microwave and his spoon scrapping the bowl. His tension is back, now, stiffening almost every muscle of his body. And he knows what she is going to say even before she speaks behind him.

"Did you get the mail?"

Another spoonful of rice, _cliiing._ "Nope."

It is ridiculous of course, because he has only postponed the inevitable.

She doesn't add anything, and he keeps his eyes down as she makes her way out of the house again to go get it. And he simply stands there, now immobile, hearing the front door close again as she comes back in. Seconds later, she's siding it on the counter in front of his eyes, just when the microwave goes off behind them.

_Beeeep, beeeeep, beeeep._

He finds that sound ominous.

He doesn't look at her as his fingers grab it, and he tears the envelop open. He has learned through the years that it is better to do it fast, like ripping a band-aid off. It doesn't make it any easier, but at least that way, he can go back faster to pretending that nothing has happened.

And there it is, obnoxious and mocking.

As he stares at the number written in bold, his heart starts to pound against his ears, his chest constricting painfully. And the beats aren't just a thumping sound anymore, no, they are a raging scream, and the word they shout is the same, always the same.

_killer…killer…killer…killer…KILLER KILLER KILLER_ _**KILLER!** _

He rips the card in half without even opening it, knowing what it would say. He rips it again. And again, until the paper is too thick for him to continue.

He plunges his hand into the sink shredder then and drops the pieces in there, and as soon as his fingers are out, he turns it on. The sound is loud and abhorrent. He keeps the shredder on, long after there is nothing left to be shred, and the appliance cringes and protests, and he thinks for a moment that he wouldn't mind putting his heart in there as well, in the hope that it would make it stop. Make it all stop.

Olivia makes it stop.

Her fingers pushing his away gently, she switches the device off. His ears keep on buzzing though, and his heart keeps on thumping. And he feels her body behind his, her lips on his shoulder.

He knows she wishes she could say something, do something. But they also both know there is nothing that can be done. She has tried every attitude, years after years, and nothing ever really helps.

That is why she remains silent but _here_ , her body warm against his back, her lips soft on the tense muscles of his shoulder blade, as one of her arms comes around his waist to rest her palm upon his pounding heart.

"Come on…" she says softly against his shirt. "Let's eat."

And that is what they do.

_(February 2026)_


	5. V.

**V.**

Peter is stirred from deep sleep by some sort of stinging sensation on his ear.

As his mind becomes more focused, he realizes that what he feels are teeth nibbling his earlobe. And it's far from being the only thing he feels. There is the soft brush of her hair on his cheek tickling him, the definite presence of bare breasts pressed upon his chest, and when he breathes in deeply, her warm scent invades his sleepy mind.

With a small growl, eyes still closed, he wraps his arms around her and rolls them over so that she's on her back again, with him half lying on top of her, his face pressed firmly into the crook of her neck. He could very well go back to sleep right there without ever knowing why she woke him up in the first place; her palms on his back make him feel safe, and her 'morning' scent is honestly his favorite fragrance. She smells so warm; she smells of dreams and home.

But she has other plans in mind.

"We have a problem," she whispers in his ear.

He really doesn't see what could be wrong right now. Actually, if they could stay like this all day (or week), he wouldn't mind at all.

"Mmmmwhat…" he mumbles against her skin as her fingers distractingly run over his back, making him shiver.

"Well, my inner clock and the fact that I am wide awake tell me that the sun should be rising right now but…look out the window."

He opens his eyes and raises his head to look at her, his mind still foggy, suddenly remembering where they are. He stretches his neck to look behind his shoulder at the large window.

Outside, the sky is still dark, way too dark, and the dim light permeating the room possesses this peculiar quality that he has always associated with rainy days.

He falls back against her with another growl, grumbling against her neck, and she chuckles softly, curling her fingers in his hair. "Didn't you check the weather before you planned this romantic escapade?"

He pulls away slightly so he can look at her; there isn't a lot of light, but his vision is adjusting already; besides, he knows her so well by now that he can pretty much draw out in his mind every expression she chooses to display just by the way she speaks or breathes. Kind of.

She's smiling softly, clearly amused, and he cannot resist a tender smile of his own. "I _did_ check. I guess the weather really is unpredictable these days. So much for our beautiful sunrise."

She scooches even closer to him, then, until every inch of their skin that can touch, touches. "It wasn't exactly a waste of time either," she whispers teasingly, before turning her head slightly to look up. He mimics her, and their gazes meet in the mirror overhead.

His face breaks into a grin as they both remember quite vividly their late night activities, and his heart simply melts when she starts to blush slightly, biting down her lip, before hiding her face into his pillow. Even after all these years, he finds it incredibly endearing how she gets almost embarrassed every time she gets a little wild and discards that need for control she's so fond of. And of course, he loves the fact that he manages to get that side out of her more often than not.

His fingers splay on her cheek, his index sneaking under her chin to make her turn her face, tickling her slightly. She looks back at him, smiling. He loves how young and care-free she looks during those fleeting moments, when they don't care about what is out there, when they allow themselves to forget about the vortexes, about Amber Protocols, about the daily loses.

It is only the two of them in this bed, ridiculously enjoying each other like teenagers, instead of acting like the forty-something year old adults they really are. And to prove it to her as well as to himself, he captures her lips with his, then, his fingers finding their way into her hair to bring her face closer and give her the good morning kiss she deserves to get.

He loses track of time, loses track of everything that isn't her, her sweet lips and her soft skin, her sighs and her shivers, her body warmth and her scent, always her scent.

They ignore the world crumbling around them, and yet, he very well knows that this doomed life they are living is the reason why things are the way they are. He has heard that people get bored after a while, that marriage ruins relationships, that everything gets dull and irritating in the long run.

And he wonders what the hell they are talking about.

He feels like they are living at the edge of a dark abyss, one of those twirling vortexes swallowing everything around them, and the only reason why he hasn't been sucked in yet is because whenever he feels like he's about to fall, all he has to do is hold out his hand and he knows she will grab it.

The Earth quakes beneath their feet, sometimes figuratively, sometimes literally, but they keep each other steady.

At the moment though, it is his whole body that is quivering, entranced by the feel of her, and he has no doubt about where this is going. That is until she abruptly lets go of his mouth and stops moving so deliciously beneath him. And though his mind is now fogged for a very different reason, he understands what this is about even before opening his eyes; he has somehow noticed how the light has changed around them, even behind his closed eyelids. Olivia reacts the way she always does.

A little too passionately.

She lets out a joyful ' _Oh_!' before rolling out of the bed, stealing the sheet in the process, ignoring the fact that she's leaving him completely naked and exposed in the middle of the bed by doing so. She roughly wraps the linen around herself as she makes her way to the window, stopping only inches away from the pane.

Having suddenly lost her body warmth –and her _body_ body, Peter feels very cold; but he's smiling as he reaches out to grab the comforter they had thrown on the floor hours before, covering his shivering body. His eyes fall back on Olivia, then, as she lays one of her palms upon the window, clearly lost in the view.

The sky is mostly still dark with clouds, but the grey sea has opened up to reveal a sun bravely fighting to get its light and warmth out there.

He doesn't have a view of the entire city from the bed, but he knows Olivia does. He doesn't care, his eyes traveling over the pale skin of her back, the sheet only covering half of her perfect buttocks. Her hair, dishevelled and gorgeous, starts to glimmer with this new found light.

"The sky isn't bleeding, here…" she whispers then, more to herself than to him.

'The Bleeding Sunrises'. That's how people call the way the sky breaks into different shades of deep red when the sun rises over New York, these days. At first, some thought it was pretty.

Now, everybody knows it is simply their world letting them knows how much it bleeds every morning.

She turns her head to look at him, then. Her eyes look a little too bright, even if she's too far for him to tell if it is caused by tears, or if it is simply a trick of the light. He decides that he doesn't really want to know.

"You don't want to watch?" She asks softly, before her eyes are drawn back to the sun.

He doesn't say anything, doesn't move either, his eyes drinking her in.

He knows he has the best view any man could ever wish for.

_(November 2025)_


	6. VI.

**VI.**

Olivia never was a _neat_ person.

She isn't exactly messy either, nothing near the level of messiness his father could reach when in one of his 'moods', anyway. But cleaning definitely isn't one of her strong suits.

_'Give me a gun, not a broom_ ,' she told him once when he suggested that maybe she should throw away some of the coffee cups getting moldy in her car. It is therefore safe to say that of the two of them, Peter is the one doing most of the domestic work around the house, when they are not busy stopping the world from dying too fast.

Every once in a while, though, they end up doing chores together during quiet Sundays, putting the music loud in the living room, songs that Ella always used to call 'Oldies' while rolling her eyes, if she were there to witness it during one of those weekends she spent with them as a teenager. She used to say that the sight of them regularly stopping their scrubbing and mopping to swirl around the room cooing over each other was slightly nauseating.

" _She's just jealous,"_ Peter would whisper in Olivia's ear, which often caused her to chuckle against his shoulder, earning them another disgusted growl from Ella, who was assigned the dusting of the globe, since she had been the one offering it to them.

When they had unwrapped it, years ago on Christmas morning, they had shared a look, both clearly agreeing on the fact that it was the ugliest thing they could ever receive to decorate their living room. But Ella had been grinning so happily and excitedly, and it had been her first Christmas without her mother, so they had both grinned back and hugged her. Peter had then spent over an hour just sitting with her and telling her all about the things he had done and seen in different parts of the world, pointing the locations out on the globe; Olivia had been watching them with a dreamy smile, chin in her hand, the other one holding a glass of whiskey of course.

As the years passed and Olivia's work became more and more time consuming, those moments became rarer, and Olivia didn't get any neater either. That's why he has always found it strange how, when particularly restless or distressed, she goes on a cleaning spree, and he had better not help or intervene.

Hair pulled into a tight bun, she goes around the house, straightening things out, changing the sheets –even the ones from the guestroom that nobody ever really uses anymore, reorganizing and moving furniture around.

Today is one of those days.

Even though it's the middle of December, the air is thick and sticky, humid and warm, the sun low in a greenish sky. Peter would love nothing more than to sit outside on the patio with a good book and let his mind go blank while enjoying the tranquillity, especially after the bustle of those last few days, but his wife has other things on her mind. And when she's cleaning of her own accord, he knows things are bad.

He lets her be for a while, pretending to be reading a science report sitting at the counter, though keeping an eye on her moving form. He finally intervenes when he notices that she's rearranging the books that were neatly organized in front of the window. She's turning them over, piling them up.

"What are you doing?" he asks curiously, frowning, and she doesn't even turn around, focused on her task.

"If it looks like I'm rearranging these books, then I guess it means I'm rearranging these books," she answers quite drily.

Pursing his lips, he stands up and makes his way to her; he's not upset by her sour mood –he's been living with a _woman_ for over thirteen years now, he knows about sour moods. But he doesn't like seeing her so tense, knowing that she's most likely beating herself up over something she can't change or has no control over. He comes behind her and wraps his arms around her waist.

"Peter, I'm busy," she sighs, and even though the A/C is on in the room, the humidity that has taken over the city today still impregnates the house and their skin. He feels the slight dampness of her top tank under his palms, tastes salt on her neck when he presses a kiss there, ignoring her protests.

"Your new organization is questionable, honey, I thought I would stop you before you start turning the couch upside down." He knows she could, if she set her _mind_ to it.

"Haha," she says humorlessly, trying to get away from his embrace, and he swiftly lets her go, watching her as she takes a few steps away. Eyes closed, she brings a hand up to her forehead to wipe the sweat off her brow, looking defeated. As always, he wants to immediately wrap her in his arms again, but he knows his boundaries.

"What's wrong?" he asks instead.

She sighs another defeated sigh, her hand falling at her side, shoulders slumping. "What are we doing, Peter?" she asks softly.

He frowns, taking a few careful steps towards her. "What do you mean?"

She shrugs, annoyed. "This, our work, our life. We spend our time running around, but people keep on dying, the Universe keeps on crumbling. It's like we're doomed to fail whatever we try."

He knew it. She is upset about what happened, those last couple of days. He is too, of course, but he has learned long ago to distance himself as much as possible from those things they cannot change; if he didn't, he would be wearing guilt constantly, like a heavy winter coat. Yes, they are the ones who give the order to release the Amber, they are therefore indirectly responsible for the people who get stuck in it, but what can they do? Let the vortexes spread and kill more people?

He does his best to distance himself, but he knows Olivia can't. She has always worn the world on her shoulders, long before it started to disintegrate in her helpless hands, one Crack at a time.

"Olivia…" he says softly, because he doesn't have an answer to that kind of question. "It may not look like it, but we are helping."

She chuckles drily, her cheeks flushed with heat and frustration. "Who are we kidding? Look outside. It's the middle of December, Peter. Ten years ago, we were fighting the snow at this time of year. I still remember that time you broke your back shoveling the driveway, and it was what, five years ago?" As she speaks her hands move almost angrily, her eyes dark, and when he finally stands close enough to her, he grabs her fingers, stopping the movements. Looking in his eyes, she seems to deflate again. "I don't even remember what a blue sky looks like," she says in a whisper. "All we get at best is that weird, white color."

He lets go of one of her hands so he can tuck a small strand of wet hair behind her ear, his fingers then gently brushing her cheek. He lets her rant, because he knows nothing he can say will make her feel better.

But as he watches her staring out the window, staring at that rainbow sky, he silently promises her that he will show her that there are still places in this world where the sun is bright and yellow.

And though he knows it will most likely never happen again, he finds himself wishing for some snow.

_(December 2024)_


	7. VII.

**VII.**

They come every year, not a day early, not a day late. Wherever they might be, they always find them.

They bring with them anxiety and anger, a sense of inevitability. Failure. Guilt. Resentment and inexplicable fear. It's one of these constants in their lives that have become part of their world, years after years, no matter how much they despise them.

Until one day of October, when there is nothing in the mail besides bills and advertisements.

No birthday card comes for Olivia, that year.

They've come home late from work, so they both know that if it hasn't come yet, it will never come again. Of course, Peter might be optimistic. But he _knows_. You don't stay hidden from everybody for so many years, making sure to keep on psychologically abusing someone every twelve months, to suddenly stop one day. You don't just 'skip' a year. And Peter knows they can verify it. Even if it takes him a few weeks to confirm it, he will make sure to have a written proof to show her, evidence she will need to accept the fact that he is gone for good.

It is after all much easier to find a cadaver than it is to find a running man.

He doesn't tell her that, of course, not yet. Actually, he doesn't tell her anything. As they enter the house and get rid of their shoes and coats, he can feel her growing distress. Unsurprisingly, she goes straight for the liquor cabinet, and serves herself a glass of whiskey, that she then downs in one impressive go, while he carefully drops the small stack of mail on the coffee table, his eyes on her.

She's halfway through refilling her glass when she abruptly stops, putting the bottle down on the counter with a loud ' _THUMP'_ before throwing the content of her glass in the sink, her free hand now up in her hair. He knows she's remembering the recommendation she got during her last checkup.

" _Try and go easy on the liquor, Agent Dunham. Your liver may start to disagree sooner than you think_ ," to which she had answered –to Peter later that day at least: " _At that rate, I might be dead in five years anyway, and I don't think my love for whiskey will have anything to do with it."_

He hadn't thought it was funny at all, but after all, neither had she. She was just being bleakly pessimistic and realistic, as always, seeing the glass half-empty…or currently, completely empty.

Her fingers leaving her hair, she turns to face him, pale yet slightly flushed. And they talk with locked gazes, like they often do when none of them really knows how to initiate that kind of conversation.

' _Are you okay?'_

' _No.'_

' _Do you want to talk about it?'_

' _No.'_

And yet he knows she needs to talk, and so does he. But she looks away, her eyes glassy. "I'm tired," she says then. "Let's go to bed." And just like that she's out of the kitchen, disappearing into their bedroom.

He doesn't join her right away. He knows it is one of these times when they should really be talking about what's happening, but don't because they don't know how to deal. They never really know how to deal. Even the previous years, when her birthday cards actually arrived, they acknowledged them without doing anything about it. What is there to be done, anyway? This kind of battle is just too personal, so personal that they can't even share the burden that comes with it. So they offer each other comfort, up close or from a distance.

That's why he gives her a few minutes alone, so she can get into bed and pretend she's asleep. Which is all kind of laughable, really, since he knows her sleep pattern –or lack of- so well; there's no way she's going to be asleep within the next few minutes, if she sleeps at all tonight. He gives her some time anyway, putting the bottle away, and filling up the dishwasher with whatever was left in the sink.

When he finally enters the bedroom, she's curled up under the covers in the dark. He quickly changes and joins her, refraining his reflex to wrap himself behind her. If she wants any kind of physical contact, even the slightest, she will let him know. Still, it's torturous to just lie there, staring at the back of her head.

Time passes, and she doesn't sleep. He doesn't sleep either, part of him still hoping that the murmur of her voice will eventually pierce the thick silence of the room. At that point, he's ready to talk about anything, even if it has nothing to do with the birthday cards. Against his will, he eventually starts to doze off, stuck in that strange state between sleep and awareness; when she suddenly leaves the bed at some point during the night, he is wide awake again within seconds. And again, he gives her a few minutes alone, before getting up himself, deciding that she's had enough time.

After all, this is not a _bad_ thing. But it's a change. And changes are never easy.

As soon as he enters the living room, the floor cold under his feet, he sees her silhouette outside on the patio. Always thoughtful, he grabs a blanket from the basket near the couch and wraps it around his shoulders before braving the chilly night air. He closes the door a little too loudly just to make his presence known; she barely flinches.

Arms crossed, she's looking up, staring at the moon. He briefly looks at its deformed shape, a few days away from being full. But his gaze quickly goes back to her, already noticing the small tremors shaking her body. He walks to her without hesitation, gently and silently pressing himself against her, wrapping her in the warmth of his arms.

She relaxes in his embrace, and he feels the reassuring pressure of her weight against his chest, head falling back against his shoulder, her fingers finding his under the blanket now covering them both. She keeps her eyes on the moon, though.

He keeps his on her face. She looks beautifully pale in this milky light, her worry lines almost invisible. She looks younger. For a moment, as they simply stand there, sharing the same warmth and quiet understanding, he can almost see the young child she once was.

He sees the young Olivia who shot the gun and opened the first birthday card a few months later.

"You know, I don't remember what it's like not to dread my birthday," she speaks then, as if she has just read his mind. Her voice is soft, more contemplative than anxious, her eyes still lost in the sky. "And I don't think that will ever stop. Even if _he_ does. I'll still be excepting the cards to come."

He lowers his head, pressing his cheek against hers. "I know," he says just as softly, his own eyes lost into the dark shapes of the trees, beyond their yard.

She brings one of her hands up from under the blanket to bury her fingers into his hair in a gentle caress. "I know you do."

He closes his eyes, nose pressed against her soft skin, his lungs and heart filled up with her scent. She smells of fall, tonight, of swirling red leaves and cinnamon; she's neither warm nor cold, trapped between two seasons.

A few more minutes of silence go by before she speaks again, her fingers still tracing slow patterns in his hair. "Do you have anything to do with it?"

He doesn't have to ask what she means. "No," he answers truthfully.

He's not offended by the fact that she's wondering if he's responsible for the lack of birthday card this year; he is known for keeping things from her on occasions, deciding by himself on _when_ the time is right to share some important information with her.

Also, it's not for lack of trying.

Again, she seems to read his thoughts. "Did you ever try to find him?"

He presses a kiss on her neck, an affectionate gesture more than anything else. "I did," he admitted then, not without a slight tinge of guilt.

She doesn't seem that surprised or upset, her body still relaxed in his arms. "When?"

Another long pause follows her question. "Nine years ago," he finally answers against her skin, forcing the memories of that time to stay buried.

There just had been too much pain and too much anger back then, and too little results when he had tried to stop the bastard from sending her a card that year, or ever again. She hadn't needed that kind of trouble on her mind on top of…the rest. But his search had been fruitless, and the card had arrived at work, as it sometimes did.

"No luck, uh?" she asks, even though the answer is obvious.

He tightens his hold around her, thinking for the umpteenth times that he wouldn't mind at all if they could simply merge into one another, knowing that the words he's about to utter will bring back her own set of painful memories. "It wasn't a good year."

He feels her tense briefly in his arms, but like him, she has good defense mechanisms; her hand finally leaves his hair to rest her palm on his cheek. He raises his head slightly as she turns her head, so that their eyes can meet.

"No, it wasn't," she agrees quietly with a sad smile. But her smile becomes tenderer then. "Until we got married, that is."

Technically, they got married the next year, but he's not going to be a smart ass about this. "Yeah, that wasn't too bad," he says with a cheeky smile, and she kisses his jaw, before turning her gaze back to the moon. And he thinks he sees some hope in her eyes.

"Maybe this is going to be a good year…" she whispers then, and there is hope in her voice, too. "Maybe…maybe _he'_ ll stop, too."

But this is wishful thinking. They both know the only reason why she hasn't gotten anything today is because her step-father must have died at some point since last October.

And Peter _knows_ his Father is not dead. He's not dead and well decided on staying around to haunt him for many, many more years. Revenge is what drives this man, and for almost twelve years now, _he_ has made sure Peter will never forget his son's birthday.

There's no hope for him. February will come, and with it will come another card.

' _Happy 12_ _th_ _Birthday!'_ this one will say.

And inside, a few words, always the same, written in black, angry letters.

' _ **Another year your son did not get to live.'**_

Another year he got to live with that knowledge and guilt. His Father does not forget, does not forgive.

And somewhere deep inside his guts, Peter knows that inflicting him with this pain every year is not enough.

This is not the last of his revenge.

_(October 2023)_


	8. VIII.

**VIII.**

The last time Peter had seen Walter, he was being escorted out of the court room. They had shared one of these 'last looks' they had already shared too many times in the past. Except that this time, they both knew it was for good.

Walter had been declared guilty of ' _provoking the slow degradation of the Universe'_. He had been given three life sentences.

That was the last time he had _seen_ him. The last time they had really spoken had been a few weeks back, before he went and 'offered himself up' to the police and to the rest of the angry world. ' _Angry'_ was an understatement.

The fact that Olivia lay battered up in his bed upstairs was proof enough. The hospital had only discharged her a few hours ago -not a minute too soon according to her, and she was finally asleep, highly dosed up on painkillers.

People were scared, people were confused, people needed someone to blame. It was not that surprising that in the short amount of time that had passed since the world had started crumbling, people had come to learn that the Fringe Division was somehow connected to the atrocities happening all around.

What was not acceptable however was that these stupid people thought they could beat someone up eight against one as a mean to get answers, or some sort of revenge. The doctors had said it was a miracle she was alive at all, but they didn't know who they were talking about.

This kind of behavior tended to make Peter want to murder people. Or torture them for many, many hours.

He had _not_ been in a good emotional place back then, and having Olivia pay for his crimes in such ways hadn't helped at all, though weak and in pain she had already repeated too many times ' _It's not your fault, I'm fine, it's not your fault.'_

He had found Walter standing in the hallway, in front of the door. He had his coat on. Peter had stopped in the middle of the staircase.

"What are you doing, Walter?" His voice was tired and irritated. His own anger didn't seem to fade away easily those days, especially _not_ today.

He was expecting some kind of ramblings about needing candies, or how a midnight walk would help his bowel movements or whatever insanity the man could come up with.

"I'm going to do what I should have done weeks ago." He had answered instead. "I'm going to go to the police, and take responsibility for my crimes."

He was grave and lucid, more lucid that he had seen him in weeks.

There was no changing his mind, no matter what Peter said. He was as stubborn as a donkey with a nail in his head.

He had ended up standing in the stairs, too, a hand on his son's face; his wrinkled features had been constricted with pain and regrets.

"Don't you understand what is happening, Peter?" He had asked almost desperately. "The world is going mad. The world needs a villain. It needs someone to blame and hate openly. It needs some kind of justice, or it will keep on hurting those who try to save it. And the last person in this universe who deserves to be placed in such harm ways is Olivia."

"They'll imprison you for the rest of your life, Walter," was all Peter had managed to say, eventually, his anger suddenly gone to be replaced by a kind a fear that made him feel like a boy again. Even though he could never admit it openly, his whole life had now been reduced to the few people it was revolving around.

The truth was, he didn't want to lose his dad.

Walter had smiled his quivering smile, and Peter had felt the tremors of his hand on his cheek. "I know. But it's about time I pay for my crimes. I have done…atrocious things. Even though I would do it all over again to save you, I have to take responsibilities for my actions."

"I…destroyed an entire _universe_ , Walter," he had managed to say. "I am the one who needs to pay."

"No, no," shaking his head, Walter had looked at him more gravely than ever. "You would never have had to make such a dreadful choice in the first place if it weren't for me. And I could never let you do this. Olivia needs you." Peter had tried to speak but his dad's trembling fingers had briefly touched his lips to shut him up. "I'm nothing but an old, broken man, Peter. I have lived my life, a life of blessings and sins. You still have your whole life in front of you, and most importantly, you have someone to love, someone who loves you and needs you. This is the most precious gift, son." He had smiled again, a heartbreaking smile. "For once, I want you to be proud of me, and not the other way around. I need you to let me do this."

And Peter had, just like Walter had let _him_ do what needed to be done, mere months ago.

Because Walter had been right. The world needed a villain.

Peter and Olivia had spoken on his behalf of course, along with Astrid, Broyles and Nina. But it had been useless. The trial had lasted a week, even though it had been clear what the outcome would be from day one. Their world might be dying, it was still _sick_ , always up for a 'good show'. Even though Peter had faced accusations as well, he had been cleared of all charges.

Because the world needed heroes as much as it needed villains, Peter had had to suffer through a short but unbearable period of unwanted celebrity. It had driven him mad, how people saw his actions as something _heroic_ , when he had killed billions of people, including his own mother and son.

All of this happened almost ten years ago. He hasn't seen Walter since. He is not even allowed to _write_ him. The only piece of mail they have managed to get into the prison was their wedding announcement, five years ago.

So really, it makes sense that they would call him to let him know that he's had a stroke, to then refuse him access to his room.

Anger boils in his veins as he paces the hospital's waiting room. As always, he feels the urge to hit something –or someone, but he knows it wouldn't help in the least. This is simply unfathomable, though. The man had a _stroke_ , for Christ's sake; he wouldn't even know Peter was in the room with him. But for someone like Peter, who has long ago embraced his need to care for the people he loves, being kept away like this is all sort of painful and infuriating.

"Peter."

The sound of her voice is a sweet caress to his ears, and so is the sight of her to his eyes when he turns around, as Olivia hurriedly makes her way to him, heels clicking on the hard floor. He accepts her open arms with a relieved sigh, and he clings to her maybe a bit desperately, grateful for her mere presence in this hostile place.

"How is he doing?" she asks softly, pulling away slightly so that their eyes can meet.

He briefly closes his eyes, jaw set, shaking his head. "It's pretty bad, apparently. He's still unconscious, but from what they have agreed to tell me, it's almost sure that he'll have permanent physical damages."

She brings her hands up to his face. "I'm sorry," she says with pain in her eyes.

He drops his head in defeat, leaning his forehead against hers. "They won't let me see him," he says almost in a whisper, seeking comfort in the feel of her soft palms on his cheeks, as well as in the comprehension and shared ache he sees in her eyes.

"Maybe I can help," she says after a long stretch of silence, and he tilts his head slightly against hers. "I'm not the big boss just yet, but people owe me a few favors here and there. I can pull a few strings and grant you access to his room, even if it's just for you few minutes."

His first impulse is to say yes, of course. He hasn't seen him in years, and he knows it would mean the world to Walter if they saw each other, especially now.

But they live in a dying world. Through the years, Peter has developed an instinct when it comes to the politics of survival. Plus, they have discussed this possibility of seeing Walter in the past, even before this, and they had agreed that they should wait, in case they really needed his 'brain' in the future. Which is all kind of ironic, now.

After having parts of it removed, and now having suffered a stroke, Peter wonders how much of his capacity the poor man still possesses. What makes him feel even sicker is the realization that he could still be…'useful'. Though he would rather think of him as being 'helpful'.

Heart or reason, which one should he choose?

As always when in doubt, he relays on the two most important women in his life, past and present. One of them still has her gaze firmly locked with his.

The other one is a whisper in his ear, and in a corner of his heart.

' _Be a better man than your father.'_

And he knows what Walter would choose.

He swallows hard and sighs, closing his eyes. "It's really tempting but…I don't think we should use your connections just yet."

He opens his eyes, and he knows she understands.

He just hopes his dad will understand, too.

_(April 2021)_


	9. IX.

**IX.**

They barely make it through the front door.

To be honest, Peter is quite impressed that they have made it all the way from the dance floor to their house, with the excruciatingly long car trip in the middle. Fifteen minutes during which Olivia's hand, which she had at first 'casually' placed on his knee, had slowly made its way up his thigh while he drove –or tried to. If the look she had given him a few minutes ago when they were 'dancing' among dozens of people just as dressed up as they were, hadn't already been enough to make him want to take her right there –or maybe on their backseat to avoid a scandal, her teasing fingers would have been.

But as it appears, Olivia has decided to really be a tease tonight; she escapes the car before he can even begin to unbuckle himself –which puts an abrupt end to his backseat fantasies. She then waits for him, back against the front door. The way she looks at him as he makes his way to her is enough to kill a few more of his neurons, but it would be shameful of him not to admit that she looks incredibly sexy in that dark blue dress, her long hair falling on her bare shoulders in a slightly disheveled way by now.

There are many things he wants to do at that instant, and all these actions contradict themselves in his brain, but one of the first things he definitely wants to do is push some of that hair away to expose the perfect curve of her neck and press his lips right _there_ , on that special spot they're both so fond of.

She seems decided on playing with his nerves, though.

He doesn't realize she has unlocked the door beforehand until she opens it behind her, just when he's finally close enough to press his body against hers. She moves hastily inside, causing him to stumble forward a little, grabbing the doorframe for support.

"Olivia," he grumbles as she laughs at the sight of him.

But she quickly makes it up to him, the sound of her laugh dying; not the smile on her face, though. She comes nearer and grabs his tie, offering him one of those looks again, and when she pulls on it, he moves without hesitation, grabbing the door and closing it quite forcefully behind him. He lets her lead, despite the fact that his patience is growing thinner and thinner by the second; she's always a step away from him, his tie in her fist, as they enter the kitchen area, still in the dark.

"I think we need some champagne," she says then as they approach the fridge.

"And I think you had enough of it for tonight, honey," he answers in a voice that leaves no doubts about what he would rather be doing, and she chuckles again, in a very adorable, and somewhat un-Olivia-ish way.

He has always found the sight of his wife being slightly drunk very intriguing. Very arousing, too.

Few people are aware of this, but the fact remains that Olivia Dunham is _not_ completely immune to alcohol. While she can drink an impressive amount of hard liquor without even getting tipsy, all it takes is two or three glasses of champagne for her to get… _bubbly_.

And she had at least five of them tonight, during that pompous 'work party' they were obligated to attend. He had realized just how inebriated she was getting when she had stopped dancing with him to start _dancing_ with him, moving her body against his in ways that were subtle but not appropriate for the room they were standing in. And the look she had been giving him was very similar to the one she's giving him _now_ , as her back finally hits the fridge, and she sighs at the coldness of it against her bare skin.

"You didn't have enough, though," she breathes out, pulling more forcefully on his tie until he's finally pinning her against the fridge's door, a proximity they both approve of.

He's torn between simply ending the wait now, or entering her teasing game and making her wiggle a little. His eyes have completely adapted to the darkness by now, and he can tell how flushed her cheeks already are, a mixture between the alcohol coursing through her veins, and the heat igniting her flesh at the feel of him against her.

He decides they can play a little longer. He can be a very good tease, too.

He slides one of his hands between the fridge and her, pressing his palm into the small of her back to pin her harder against him and she sighs, heavy eyelids. He brings his mouth to her ear then and whispers: "You're the only thing I want to drink tonight." And as she shudders appreciatively against him, he flips them around so that she's not blocking the door anymore, and he opens the fridge with his free hand. "But I won't say no to some champagne either."

But before he can get his fingers on the bottle they have placed in it earlier –as a reward for surviving the party, she uses her grasp on his tie to make him turn his attention back to her. With the light coming out of the fridge, he can now see just how flushed she is, and how dilated her pupils are; her mascara has smudged a little, and the dark lines under her eyes create a beautiful contrast with the green of her irises. She rarely wears makeup –because she honestly doesn't need any- but he would be damned if he didn't appreciate the sight when she did.

He knows his own eyes are dark with desire; he feels it running through his blood, and it only intensifies when she lets go of his tie to slip both her hands under his jacket, lightly grazing her nails over his shirt, a knowing smile on her lips.

"You know Jefferson?" She then asks, quite randomly he thinks.

Her voice is casual, and he frowns, confused about why she's popping his name out _now_. "One of the science nerds?"

Since she has chosen to stop undressing him with her gaze to talk about work instead, he turns back to the fridge, grabbing the bottle of champagne and finally closing the door. He was quite enjoying the sight of her, though, so he turns on one of the lights over the counter, just when she answers in his ear:

"We were dancing earlier, and he felt me up."

_That_ catches his attention alright.

Peter puts the bottle down on the counter a little too loudly, turning around to focus entirely on his wife. "He _what_?"

She's still smiling, clearly not that traumatized by the experience, and rather enjoying his reaction.

Both hands slide down under his jacket to grab his ass. "He did _that_." And she squeezes.

Now Peter is not an exceedingly jealous man, especially when he knows that Olivia doesn't take that kind of behavior from anybody –except from him on occasions, but the level of testosterone definitely swells in his blood. "I hope you fired him," he growls, meaning it.

She just chuckles and grins, that slightly drunken grin. "You know I don't have that kind of authority. Yet. But don't worry, he won't try that ever again after what I said. And he'd clearly had more champagne than I did."

He's still not happy at the thought of this man touching her that way, but now he is curious...and unsurprisingly even more aroused at the idea of his wife scaring Jefferson away like he knew she would. That's why he's smiling a little when he asks: "What did you say?"

She makes an innocent face, shrugging. "I believe my words were something like: ' _I have a gun under my dress. You better take those hands off my ass and leave the room within the next thirty seconds, or I will shoot you in the balls_.'"

He can't help but chuckle, having no trouble imagining the scene and the serious, unperturbed look she must have been giving him while threatening to shoot his most precious possessions. With a very appreciative smile, he spins them around again so that she's back against the fridge, chest to chest, faces mere inches away; he very much loves the fact that it's all it takes for her eyes to darken again, her hands still on his backside.

A little too slowly, one of his hands leave her waist, finding its way under the hem of her dress just above her knees; his fingers then lightly graze the smooth skin of her right thigh, and she squeezes him again, head falling back against the door.

"Looks like there's no gun here," he says in a low voice, somewhat distracted by the way her hands are already back under his jacket; she's grabbing fistfuls of his shirt now, her tugs as slow as his fingers tracing patterns on her inner thigh, until she frees some of it from his pants, granting her access. Within seconds, both her palms are running over the heated skin of his back, which causes his own touch to become firmer, fingers digging into her soft flesh, only inches away from her aching core.

"Well, it's not like I let him check," she eventually answers back, and her voice is deeper, slightly breathless, the flush on her cheeks now a deeper shade of pink, and yet he still sees every one of her freckles. He wants to lick them all. "But apparently, I have the reputation of being rather deadly when I draw my gun."

His nose bumps hers slightly, and the feel of her warm breath on his lips only increases the warmth inside of him, and all around them. "You _are_ quite redoubtable with a gun, honey," he says against her lips. "Redoubtable, and terribly sexy."

"Are you trying to seduce me?" she whispers, a feeble attempt to try and mask just how breathless she is, her palms on his back now almost digging into his flesh as they move.

And then he feels her nails sinking in, almost piercing his skin when he presses his own palm against _her_ , pressing hard enough to feel her pulsing warmth even through the fabric of her underwear. She lets out a sigh that almost sounds like a moan.

"I don't think you need much more seducing," he says in a husky voice, before his fingers move up, then down, slipping into her panties, and her hands grab both his shoulders under his clothes as he begins to tease her _just_ the right way. She arches against him, head thrown back as she moans - loudly this time, giving up all pretenses.

That is another thing about her and champagne. She gets _loud_.

Not that she does not usually express herself vocally when he does things right, but 'loud' just isn't who she is. Unless she's had too much to drink, and at that instant, every part of his aching body approves, heat pooling low and hard and spreading through every inch of him. Incapable of keeping his mouth away from her any longer, he goes for her tensed neck, pressing wet kisses on her pulsing point. But he quickly stops, and finds himself simply breathing her in, breathing her _deep_ , nose and lips against her skin.

She smells of that perfume she so rarely wears, only when they have to play dress up; through the years, he has come to associate that fragrance with a great amount of exposed skin, cascade of golden hair flowing down her shoulders and back, and deep green eyes accentuated by that make-up.

And legs. Endless, flawless legs.

She had given him a knowing look earlier tonight when she was getting ready; he had been watching her approvingly and shamelessly from the doorway, as she sprayed some perfume on her wrists, rubbing them together, then tilting her head to rub them on her neck, where his lips are now pressed. But as he breathes in deep and slow, a thrilling contrast with her hasty and shallow intakes of breath, he can smell _her_ , her unique scent getting more pronounced with every new gasp and moan echoing in the kitchen.

One of her hands has escaped from under his shirt to curl into his hair, scrapping his scalp, until she closes her fist and pulls just hard enough to let him know that he should leave the warm cocoon of her neck. He pulls away and looks at her; eyes dark and foggy, cheeks burning and forehead beginning to glisten, and parted lips, plump and inviting. _Delicious_ , he thinks as his own open mouth finds hers, both of them too hungry to bother with light kisses.

They kiss deep and long instead, and his tongue massages hers with the same dedication his fingers still caress her as he pins her harder against the fridge and she ripples against him, arms, palms and fingers keeping him as close to her as possible. But it's never close enough, and the need to feel _more_ of her becomes stronger and stronger, until it is almost unbearable.

When he moves both his hands to cup her perfect ass, she lets out a grunt of disapproval against his lips…until he picks her up, accentuating the contact between their craving bodies even through clothing, and the disapproving sound changes into an elated gasp. He turns them around to finally put her down on the counter on the other side, her knees still circling his hips. They kiss heatedly, his hands now pulling on her dress to expose more of her thighs.

She's the one who abruptly breaks up their embrace, pulling away slightly, breathless. "I thought we'd said doing it on the counter was bad for your back."

He lets out a sound that is somewhere between a chuckle and a grunt, his heart pounding against his ears and beneath his chest, where one of her hands his now resting –not to mention how it's pulsing _low_. "Why do you always have to be so unromantic?"

She purses her lips, frowning. "I'm not unromantic," she protests with a small pout. "I'm just…practical."

"Same same, hun. But thank you for worrying about my back, it doesn't make me feel old at all."

"Awww," she says with a smile that is way too radiant. "You're not old." And she presses her palm against the hard bulge of his pants, causing him to flinch into her hand. "See, you don't even need pills yet."

He grunts once more and pinches her thigh; she lets out a small cry of pain that he muffles with a hard yet loving kiss, before saying in a falsely upset tone: "That's it woman, you definitely need more champagne." Her hand is moving, but definitely not _away_ , which makes it hard for him to be really upset at all, or to think straight for that matter.

But he reaches out for the bottle, and then places it between her bare thighs to hold it still. She hisses at the coolness of it against her warm, sensitive skin, but she's so high on bubbles and endorphins that everything seems to be a source of enjoyment, giving him a yearning look as she bites down her lip. Staring back at her just as intensely, he puts his thumbs on both sides of the cork with every intent on getting it out, but she suddenly slaps his hands away playfully.

"Let me do that," she says then, a little too excitedly.

He's a little perplexed, as he's usually always the one assigned to that task, but he's mostly curious. She doesn't make a move indicating that she's going to get the cork out, though. Her eyes, intense and focused, stare at it instead. Within seconds, she gets that blank look that lets him know what she's doing.

"Olivia, I doubt that after all you drank, you're gonna be able to-"

But leave it to her to prove him wrong. The bottle pops open then, the cork floating neatly between them. She's apparently controlled the pressure within the bottle too, because only a few bubbles emerge from the top. Leaving her state of trance, she offers him a cocky smile.

"Show off," he says then, grabbing the levitating cork, even though he's as impressed as always by her performance.

Still smiling, she raises an eyebrow before bringing the bottle up to her mouth, taking an impressive mouthful of champagne.

"Ow!" he protests with a pained face. "I'm pretty sure what you just did is illegal in some countries. Probably France."

It earns him a wiggling eyebrow this time. "It never stopped us before." She tightens her holds around his hips then, bringing him slightly and approvingly closer. "Plus, we bought it. I therefore declare that we are allowed to drink it whatever way we want."

_That_ instantly sends Peter's genius mind reeling, always up for a new experiment. He looks at the bottle in her hands, then at her rosy face and twinkling eyes. With a mysterious smile, he takes the bottle away from her and says: "Lie back."

She purses her lips, not moving an inch. "Foreplay time's over? Who's being unromantic, now?"

But he gives her a cheeky smile. Happy to prove her wrong, too, he splays the fingers of his free hand over her lower back, making her slide closer to the edge and closer to him, and she grabs his tie again, almost instinctively.

"Oh no, we're just getting started," he assures her in that low voice he knows drives her crazy, before taking a small sip of champagne. He doesn't swallow it, the liquid fizzing on his tongue and all around his mouth.

He puts the bottle down behind her to free his hand, so he can slide it behind her head. He cups her nape gently but with some pressure so that she will tilt her head back. She follows his move without resistance, and then pulls hard on his tie to bring his mouth down upon hers. As he cannot do much while keeping his lips sealed, she enjoys exploring them with nibbling teeth, the tip of her tongue soon joining in, and it is more than enough to send more shivers down his spine.

He buries his fingers deeper into her hair as she uses her tongue to crack his lips open, just enough for the champagne to start leaking out, and she drinks it thirstily. Her other hand is back in his hair as well to bring him closer and then kiss him deeper, the last of the liquid dribbling down their chins. None of them care, for he is finally able to participate fully to the kiss; she groans her intense approval, crossing her legs behind his back to press herself more fully against him and his arm circles her waist, her hips grinding into his.

When their mouths part just enough so they can breathe, she leans her forehead against his, panting. "Alright, that's enough foreplay. Take your pants off."

But he shakes his head and pulls back slightly to give her another devilish smile, and she grunts in frustration when his hands leave her body to pick up the bottle, behind her.

"Lie back," he repeats. She's stubborn, but so is he. Chest still heaving, she rolls her eyes but finally lets go of his tie and hair, lying back on her forearms. "Uh uh," he shakes his head again, pressing his free hand on her collarbone. "All the way."

She huffs, clearly not appreciating the fact that he wants her _farther_ away from him rather than closer, but she finally gives up, lying down upon the counter, hair falling down its sides. He lets his fingers trail down, sinfully ignoring her cleavage to graze the fabric of her dress, driving her a little crazier. He then puts the bottle down again, between her body and arm.

"Hold that for me," he says in a casual voice that earns him another frustrated sigh, before he places both his hands and her thighs. "Open up," he says then, his voice back to a lower tone.

"Gladly," she breathes out, unwrapping her legs. But soon she's grunting again when he simply takes a step back from the counter. His hands don't leave her legs, though.

He runs his palms down their interminable length, before choosing to focus solely on her right leg, his short fingernails slightly scraping her calf, until his hands find her shoe. He takes the heel off, and looking at her, throws it unceremoniously behind his shoulder. She can't help but chuckle at this inside joke –or rather recurrent silly argument. He does the same with the other one, then starts making his way back to her. He takes his time, never leaving her blazing gaze, scattering kisses over ankle, calf and knee. But at this point, he simply stops and comes back to her, letting her legs wrap themselves loosely around him again. She's frustrated and impatient, but he can also tells that she's enthralled, awaiting his next move, unable to read his best poker face, even after all these years. Not when she's had a little too much champagne, in any case.

He grabs the hem of her dress, already pooling around her waist, and slides it higher to reveal her pale and tensed stomach. One hand resting on her thigh, the other seizes the bottle but doesn't move it yet. He leans down instead, pressing a kiss inches away from her bra, still mostly covered by her dress. He takes a malicious pleasure in brushing his stubble lightly over her smooth skin, making her shiver and sigh. He starts a new trail of kisses then, going down and breathing deep again, intoxicated by that scent of hers, getting stronger and stronger as he moves downward. But before he reaches the place that is craving for his attention, he straightens up again, picking the bottle up.

"What are you doing?" she asks, and her voice is hoarse. He doesn't answer.

Instead, he pours some champagne into her navel. She lets out a hiss of surprise, and the inevitable twitches of her stomach cause the liquid to spill over and drip on her skin. He swiftly bends lower, fingers digging into her thigh as his tongue starts to sweep and lick, not missing a single drop, and quite adoring the tremors it creates under her skin. Before long, both tongue and lips are diving into the crease, and he sips the liquor out.

His hand moves from her thigh to her hip to keep her from arching up, pinning her down as her gasps become moans, her owns hands forcefully twisting the fabric of his jacket over his shoulders. A dull strain in his lower back lets him know that this will not be without consequences for him indeed, but at the moment, this is worth every second of pain in the future.

When the last of the champagne is gone, he raises his head to look at her, rather pleased by the fact that he has managed to turn her cheeks ever redder, and he finally answers her question: "Just drinking champagne, like you suggested.

She lets out a breathless chuckle. "It's not exactly what I had in mind."

Giving her another wicked smile, he slowly lets go of her hip to move away slightly again, and her hands fall back at her sides as he straightens up a little. Without a word, he brings her leg up from under his arm, placing it over his shoulder; he swiftly transfers the bottle to his other hand so he can do the same with her other leg. She stares up at him, her breathing quickening noticeably, and she bites down her lip.

"You know I love to get creative," he says then almost in a whisper, pressing a kiss on the soft skin of her thigh, and she closes her eyes, chest heaving with anticipation.

And so, he gets creative.

Knowing that she would never allow him to do this sober –or intoxicated with her eyes opened, he takes advantage of her close eyelids to pour some more champagne on her. Lower this time, soaking her already wet underwear.

Her reaction does not disappoint.

She writhes and swears loudly, hand grabbing both sides of the counter in a death grip, and he can imagine that the sudden presence of cold liquid on that particular warm and sensitive area would lead him to look just as pissed off and wild.

"Jesus, Peter!" she hisses, now trying to push herself up on her elbows. "What the-"

But he has already discarded the bottle on the floor, so that both his hands can slip palms up under her, grabbing her and pushing her up. Next things she knows, he is pressing his mouth into the drenched fabric, sucking the liquid out. _Hard_. She instantly falls back upon the counter, and her hands literally fly to his hair, twisting it forcefully between her fingers and pushing and pulling him into her as she buckles against his mouth. Her moans, loud and unrestrained, reverberate into the room and through every inch of his being. And he just _knows_ that, gone as she is, he could very well send her off to some sunny and exotic place by simply keeping on doing what he's doing.

But as always, he's craving for more, feeling just as intoxicated as her, but she's the drug running through his veins; it's her scent and those sounds she's making and her nails in his scalp, not to mention that exquisite flavor he's drinking.

And so he lets her go –for the time being at least, looking up at her, and quite honestly wanting to drink and eat all of her. Head thrown back, hair pooling around her and falling on each side of the counter, she's trying to catch her breath, suspended in that state when all it would take is a mere nothing to push her over the edge.

"Mmm…" he hums against her inner thigh. "Best champagne cocktail I ever had."

He is not in the slightest bit surprised when she simply burst into laughter then, the sound just as honest and liberated as the ones he was drawing out of her seconds ago, her touch now tender in his hair. At least it is until he expertly hooks his fingers on each side of her panties and tugs the fabric away.

Exactly six seconds later, he feels the wonderful sting of her nails in his scalp again as her laughter morph into harmonic moans, and he somehow manages to think that these two beautiful sounds should always be combined.

_(June 2020)_


	10. X.

**X.**

Peter has just started peeling the carrots when the front door opens behind him.

"You girls are home early," he says without turning around, focused on the vegetable. These have become so rare to find nowadays that he doesn't want to waste any of it.

"It's just me," answers a rather dull voice as the door closes; he finally glances over his shoulder, just in time to see Ella carelessly drop her backpack on the floor. "Aunt Liv had to go to work, she asked me to let you know she might not make it on time for dinner."

He surveys his niece for a moment, taking in her red eyes and slumped shoulders, before opening a drawer and getting another peeler out. "I think we should still have that fancy dinner I was making for you two. Help me out?"

She offers him her best unenthusiastic look. "Seriously? You gonna make me peel stuffs?"

"The dream of every fifteen year old girl," he answers cheerfully, wiggling the peeler, but she's just as stubborn as her aunt. Plus, she's fifteen. "C'mon," he says, losing the smile and offering her a knowing look. "Trivial tasks help take your mind off things."

She sighs but finally makes her way around the counter to join him on the other side, taking the peeler and grabbing a carrot. "Where did you find those, anyway?" she can't help but ask.

"I have connections," he answers mysteriously. Only a few years ago, she would have asked him to elaborate and tell her wild stories. But that Ella is long gone, replaced by a teenager whose green eyes are already too dark. Especially today. "Plus, I just know how much you love carrots."

She huffs darkly, peeling a bit aggressively. "Yeah, when I was like eight."

He decides not to push her. July 3rd hasn't been a good day for his girls for a few years now, and therefore it isn't for him either, but he does his best to help out as he much as he can. By cooking fancy dinners, for example.

When all around the city, people are putting out flags for the next day's celebrations, Olivia and Ella buy flowers and visit cemeteries.

They work in silence for a few minutes. He almost speaks on several occasions, wanting to ask her how is school or if he should be scaring away some boys looking at her the wrong way, but the young Dunham channels her aunt in too many ways. He knows school is going perfectly and that she thinks boys her age are a joke. Also, when particularly upset, she closes up and will only open up when she feels like it.

That is why he is quite surprised when she is the one who finally speaks. He is even more shocked by her question.

"Who's Elizabeth?" She asks, not taking her eyes away from her task, now peeling a potato.

Peter, on the other hand, stops his movement, his breath getting caught in his throat; he's pretty sure his heart has missed a beat within his chest.

Because he _knows._ He knows she can't possibly be talking about his mother. Not today, not after visiting _that_ cemetery. But there's no harm in being optimistic, is it?

So he 'casually' starts cutting his carrot again, before answering in a steady voice. "Well, my mother was named Elizabeth."

_Cut. Cut. Cut._

"I don't think it's her," Ella replies then, tersely. "Her full name was 'Elizabeth Dunham-Bishop.'"

Peter lets out a hiss of pain as the knife slashes his index, and he brings it up to his mouth, muffling a swear word. His mind has gone blank, which is a good thing, and he turns around to the sink, turning the water on and placing his finger under the spray, focusing on the dull pain already starting to pulse at the gash. Maybe Ella will get the hint, and drop it.

But she definitely is a Dunham.

"Did you and Aunt Liv have a child?" she asks instead behind him, and he closes his eyes.

He turns the water off and grabs a towel, pressing it to his wound. "Did Olivia talk to you about this?"

"Hardly," she answers, and her voice is even graver now. "I can barely get her to talk about mom."

Rather reluctantly, he faces her again. Her face is pale, and her eyes look watery. She also looks pissed off. He forces himself to remember that she's in pain and grieving her mother at the moment, a variable he cannot dismiss.

But she has no idea what Pandora Box she is trying to break open.

He knows that dismissing her won't do any good, though; she might go ask Olivia if he refuses to answer her questions, and he doesn't want that either.

"Where did you hear her name, then?" he eventually asks, and his voice is slightly hoarse.

She shakes her head slightly. "I didn't. I read it." She bites her lip then, something he knows she only does when she's done something to feel guilty about. And sure enough, she looks down at her hands, avoiding his gaze now. When she speaks again, her voice is hardly louder than a whisper. "For the past three years, whenever we went to mom's grave, Aunt Liv would always…she would give me a few minutes by myself if I wanted to…you know, to talk to her."

Peter knows. Even though there is no body in that grave –how could there be one?- it's precisely the reason why Olivia had insisted her sister got a grave anyway, so there would be a place for Ella to mourn her properly.

"Anyway," Ella continues, glancing up at him, blinking some tears away. "She got a call from work today, and asked me if I was alright coming back here by myself. I said yes, of course, and she left. Except that she didn't go for the exit right away. She went the way she always did the previous years so…"

"You followed her," Peter finishes for her, his voice remarkably soft, though his arms are crossed and his jaw set, his posture screaming his disapproval. But when he sees a tear finally escape Ella's eyes to roll onto her pale cheek, a sign of weakness she hastily wipes away, his whole body slumps a little.

"I did," she whispers. "She stayed there for a few minutes, then left. That's when I went up to the grave and read her name."

"Ella," he starts, but stops. He sighs, closing his eyes, trying to keep his own emotions about the whole subject buried, the way they have been for a while now, because that's the way he likes it. Or the way he _needs_ it to be. "Can we…just drop it, please?"

But she won't. When he opens his eyes again, hers are lost in the distance. "I don't remember much of my childhood before…before mom died." She says then, and her voice sounds as distant as she looks, clearly lost in some broken memory. "But I do remember Aunt Liv being pregnant. Like, _really_ pregnant." She meets his eyes again then. "I just…I never really thought about it again because…because mom asked me not to talk about it back then, and…I don't remember ever seeing a baby."

The dull pain is changing into something more intense now, and he has to close his eyes again, clenching the towel in a death grip, swallowing hard. "Ella, please," he repeats. "Let it go."

"Why don't you go with her?" she asks then, and her voice, though barely louder than a whisper, sounds accusing now; and so is the look on her face when he meets her eyes again. "You shouldn't let her go there by herself."

It's like a slap in the face, or a bucket of cold water poured over his head. She doesn't understand, and how could she? She simply has _no idea_ what she's talking about, and he doesn't take that kind of accusation well at all.

Guilt and irritation are swelling fast inside of him, like a familiar disease.

"That's enough, I don't want to talk about this anymore." He tells her coldly. "You can go to your room, I'll finish here."

But she chuckles darkly, a look of despise on her flushed face. "That's bullshit," she hisses. "You haven't even said a word yet."

"Careful, Ella, your age is showing," he replies in a low tone, his voice dripping with sarcasm, as he very well knows that she hates being called an 'angry teenager' or any stereotype associated to her age.

"No, it's your lack of feelings that is showing" she spits back, and he's had about enough of her tantrum.

"That's it, you're grounded, go to your room."

"Try again," she answers without losing a beat. "You're not my father."

_That_ hurts way more than it should.

He actually winces a little. She obviously immediately regrets her words, her face crumbling as her anger fades away to be replaced by mortification when she realizes what she has said, and how insensitive it was after the 'discussion' they just had.

"Fair enough," he whispers then, looking away, down to his wounded hand, which is still bleeding he realizes then, dropping the towel on the counter.

And then his hip hits the counter, when she literally pounces on him quite forcefully, wrapping her arms tightly around his waist and burying her face against his side.

"I'm sorry…" she whimpers, her voice muffled against his shirt, and he's pretty sure she's crying now. "I didn't mean it."

He sighs heavily and slides his uninjured hand in her hair, the other one dripping over the sink. He knows he needs to take care of it, but right now, his niece's distressed is more important than a few drops of blood.

He presses his lips against the top of her head. "I know," he says softly, his own anger completely gone; all he wants is to make her _stop_ crying, now. "It's okay."

But she shakes her head against him, sniffling loudly. "No it's not. You've been a better father to me these past few years than my real one. It was cruel and I do need to be grounded."

He can't help but chuckle soflty, and his hand cups her cheek so she would raise her head; he brushes a few tears away with his thumb. She looks so _young_ when she cries.

"We'll let this one go," he tells her with a comforting smile. "You've been nothing but an exemplary teenager so far, after all. And I think special circumstances call for exceptions." She gives him a weak smile, but it doesn't reach her eyes. He loses his own smile, and sighs again, before telling her softly: "I know you want answers, Ella but…there are just some subjects that are very personal, and simply too painful. You understand?"

He knows she does. She nods slowly, before hiding her face in his shirt again. "I miss her…" she whispers then, before her body starts trembling against his, more forcefully this time, and his hand goes back to her hair.

"I know, sweetie, I know…"

He lets her cry against him, a rare moment of vulnerability he knows, and it rips his heart apart, knowing that there's nothing he can do. Her mother died four years ago, and nothing will ever soothe that pain, just like nothing will ever soothe his pain, or Olivia's. He lets her cry, and cannot help but think about what she's said, despite his intense desire to forget it all again, or to pretend at least.

He wants to explain himself to her. He wants to tell her about how suffocating it is for him to simply _stand_ at the cemetery's gate. He has tried in the past, more times that he would ever admit to anybody, not even to Olivia. They don't talk about it, because he knows she understands, somehow. Olivia understands his insufferable guilt and how torn he feels.

She understands why he cannot bring himself to go mourn their daughter together, when his son didn't get the luxury of a grave.

"I remember something else," Ella says softly against him after a long stretch of silence, and she takes his lack of answer for an authorization to keep on going. "I remember mom asking me for the cross Aunt Liv gave me, years ago. She told me someone else needed it more. I remember feeling incredibly jealous because I thought…who could Aunt Liv want to give it to, more than to me? But…she gave it to Elizabeth, didn't she?"

Ella remembers more than she gives herself credit for. But Peter doesn't want to remember. He doesn't want to think about it, to think about _her_. He needs for those memories to go back to a dark corner of his heart, where they have been hiding for the past five years. He needs for that box to stay closed.

And yet, he remembers.

He remembers tiny fingers and ivory skin. He remembers Olivia, and how delicately she had slipped the silver cross between the baby's hands. He remembers how _quiet_ everything was, and the tender kiss she had pressed on her soft skin, murmuring words that hadn't reached his ears.

And then he remembers that he needs to forget.

He turns his head slightly against her hair to stare at his finger, still slowly dripping blood into the sink. "She did," he whispers.

But the memory is already gone.

_(July 2019)_


	11. XI.

**XI.**

Olivia is practically curled up into a perfect ball by the time he comes back to the couch, with her legs brought up to her chest, both arms tightly wrapped around herself. She looks pale, even in the dim light of the room.

He bends over and touches her cheek lightly. She opens her eyes and looks up at him.

"Sit up," he tells her softly. He sees her gaze fall on what he's brought back from the kitchen, and she obeys without question, unable to contain a pained sigh as she moves, though.

He sits where her head was resting mere seconds ago, moving the cushion behind his back –which still aches dully but it's bearable now- and she lies back down without awaiting for his invitation. Her head falls upon his thigh, pressing her face into his sweatpants, even managing to curl up a little closer to him. He wraps his arm around her, placing the heat pad over her stomach, her hands soon covering his, increasing the pressure. He knows she's in more pain than she'd admit, as usual, and he wishes he could do more.

His other hand finds its way into her hair; his fingers move in a soothing motion, gently massaging her head to try and make her whole body relax, nails grazing her scalp. While her eyes seem to be lost somewhere in the distance, staring at the black TV screen without really seeing it, he keeps his gaze on her profile. He quickly takes in the frequency of her cramps by the way her fingers regularly squeeze his rather forcefully, as if trying to get the heat pad inside her aching insides.

"Is it helping at all?" He asks softly after a while, still massaging her scalp.

She lets out a small chuckle. "A little. The fact that you're sitting here with a heating pad, massaging my head when you should be in bed yourself, _does_ make me feel good, though, trust me."

He smiles at _her_ smile. "I think I'm legally obligated to take care of you when you're whiny and in pain. Just like you did for me three days ago. It goes with the whole marriage thing."

She purses her lips and turns her head slightly to look up at him. "I'm hardly 'whiny'. Apathetic, maybe. Moody on occasions. But I don't _whine_."

His smile grows wider, and he tilts his head apologetically. "I know. I'm just bitter and jealous. Because _I_ was incredibly whiny. I don't know how you manage to stay this collected when you're in pain."

She's smiles again, clearly remembering how overly dramatic he was indeed behaving only a day ago while lying in bed with a 'broken back'. In his defense, it had snowed _a lot_ , and since they still hadn't bought a snow blower, he had insisted on shoveling the driveway all by himself. No less than four times in two days. He had ended up barely able to move, and she had only scowled at him once for his stubbornness at acting 'manly', despite the fact that they both knew his back wasn't what it used to be, not after all those 'work accidents'.

She had been caring, though, like she always is; he is now simply (and gladly) returning the favor now that she has to go through her 'monthly torture' as he calls it.

"Well, you know what they say," she replies eventually. "Women just have a higher pain tolerance for obvious reasons."

She turns her head again, moving slightly as her whole body tenses briefly; it's a reaction he knows well and recognizes. He knows it's not caused by her current aches, but by some rush of memories she would rather keep dormant.

"We really need to find a way to go get Ella tomorrow," she says then, casually, putting an end to the growing tension. "She's mad at us."

He huffs. "She honestly thinks we're responsible for that snow storm blocking the major highways?"

She chuckles humorlessly, her gaze moving from the empty screen to the window. Thick snowflakes can be seen falling against it almost in slow motion. Endlessly. He doesn't even want to think about the driveway right now.

"She was supposed to spend the week with us, and ended up being stuck with her dad instead," Olivia takes her niece's defense. "She's ready to blame the weather man at that point, but I'm easier to reach on the phone."

"That, plus the fact that she's fourteen. The whole world is basically against her at the moment, right?"

She glances at him, not amused. "Don't go tell her that. There's no better way to send her off."

He snorts, his hand in her hair not really massaging anymore. He's mostly simply enjoying the silky feel of her soft strands between his stroking fingers. "I've been living with you for seven years. You'd think I know better than to question a Dunham's motive for being angry."

She makes a face then, genuinely amused this time. "What is that supposed to mean?"

He gives her a teasing smile. "Nothing. I just have no problem picturing you as this rebellious teenager."

She shakes her head against him, lips pursed. "Uh uh. I was too busy being a loner to be rebellious. It was always more Rachel's trademark."

It only takes an instant for the dark shadows to invade her eyes after that, and his own heart squeezes painfully beneath his chest, knowing that for a fleeting second there, she had simply…forgotten. She had forgotten that Rachel was gone, that she didn't talk about her anymore.

Unsurprisingly, she shifts again, sinking her cheek deeper into the fabric of his pants, eyes fixed on the window, nails almost digging into the flesh of his hand. He starts the slow massaging of her head again, but she remains incredibly tensed.

"I was a real pain in the ass as a teenager," he says then, voluntarily too lightly, pretty much willing to do or say anything to soothe her at that instant.

He is rewarded when her fingers do relax their grip around his; he even sees the shadow of a smile on her lips. "Hasn't changed much," she breathes out; exactly the answer he expected from her.

"Thank you, honey," he replies in a falsely hurt voice. "It's the last time I warm up that pad for you."

But she intertwines their fingers, then, keeping the pad firmly pressed against her abdomen, her thumb gently caressing the side of his hand. Her small smile is already gone, though.

"My mom used to say I had Walter's temper," he says softly after another minute of silence. "You can imagine how well I used to take that."

This is rare. Not the fact that he's sharing one of his few memories with her; _that_ actually happens quite often, during lazy mornings spent in bed, or late into the dark of night whenever their love making leave them with the intense desire to share a little more of their souls, and they sometimes talk for hours. The rarity comes in the mention of his mother, as well as of Walter. They are usually really good at leaving these names out of conversations.

They both have their ghosts.

And yet, this feels right. Good, even, especially when he feels her relax a little more in his arms, waiting for him to go on.

"In the winter, I would always get weirdly obsessed and fascinated with the lake. I would regularly decide that I wanted to 'explore it' when it was frozen, and my mom would freak out."

They both know why his mother reacted that way, now. They know that the lake is where Walter made them cross over.

The first Crack between their worlds.

The air should be charged with tension by now, but it is not. His nails are still grazing her scalp, while her thumb brushes his skin, and her body is almost back to being soft against his. And when she speaks, her voice is a quiet whisper.

"We used to go sledding. Rachel and I. Quite honestly, any excuse to get out of the house was good, especially when our mom was having one of her relapses, which meant that she was in the hospital and we were left with him. There was this huge slope nearby that even older kids didn't really dare to use, because it ended up in this deep, dark pit, and being bigger, their speed made it hard for them to stop on time."

"Let me guess," he says with a soft smile. "You used to go down that slope all the time."

She smiles, her mind miles away from here now. "Worse, I would take Rachel with me. And she was…five, maybe? I was barely eight, and pretty much fearless. She was always so scared. I used to tell her ' _Just close your eyes, Rach, you're safe with me.'_ And she was, you know?" He knows. He can't do anything but keep on stroking her hair, though, staring at her face, so intense and focused, lost in her memory. "I think that's the reason why I always managed to stop the sled on time," she goes on in a murmur. "She was with me. And I wanted her to be with me because…because when we were going down that steep slope and gathering so much speed, there was always a moment when I would actually feel scared, just for a second. But going down, I felt like there was…something more. Like, if I concentrated hard enough, I wouldn't need to stop because where we were going, there would be no hole, only firm ground. And we'd both be safe there."

It is strangely fascinating, how they both know without needing to say it out loud what she's implying. How, even as a young child, she had felt the Other Side, and how she had even on some level understood that this association of love and fear could trigger her abilities. And as it is so often the case, he understands her.

He understands that young child who had been so desperate to get away from her life and take her little sister to safety, no matter how dangerous the path might be. Because even though he doesn't remember anything clearly, feelings are easier to try and grasp than images. And he remembers quite vividly his own intense longing. He had wanted to go home.

It is slightly ironic, how it is _home_ that has found him in the end. A home with two beautifully haunted eyes, and the kindest of smile.

His fingers leave her hair, then, brushing the soft skin of her cheek. "You're safe, now," he whispers.

They both know it is a lie. As long as this world keeps on crumbling away, tearing them apart from the people they love, none of them will ever be safe.

But it's one of these good lies. Lies they need to keep on going, day after day. And he knows she understands what he means.

She's safe with him.

_(January 2018)_


	12. XII.

**  
XII.**

She is livid.

In all honesty, he can't remember the last time he has seen her that infuriated. It's the kind of anger she's trying to keep in, but knowing her as he does, everything in her body language simply screams of impending death. His, probably. Not that he cares much.

He's even worse than her.

"What was that about, Peter?" she asks tersely, closing her office's door a bit too loudly. Again, none of them cares.

He's pretty sure she's talking about how five minutes ago, he was fearlessly and quite rudely contesting her authority in front of no less than six other FBI agents. All of them are surely betting right now on the outcome of their fight. They are usually really good at behaving professionally, which makes it all even more exciting to the outsiders.

Neither of them is amused at the moment, though, really not. Actually, Peter wants to murder someone. He needs to act, to move, and she's being annoyingly unsupportive.

"I'm still going out there," he tells her gravely, ignoring her question. "I am not going to just sit around waiting for-"

"We have _protocols_ ," she cuts him off, her hand slashing the air –a very obvious sign of how mad she is. "You cannot jump into a dangerous situation just because your judgment is biased."

He chuckles almost mockingly. "Who's the one to talk?"

Amazingly, her eyes darken even more, and her whole body stiffens. He should already be regretting his words, knowing that there _will_ come a time when he will beat himself up for acting this way. Unfortunately, he is not being rational at the moment. Not that he's going to admit it to her, of course.

"Alright," she says then, tilting her head sharply. "I get it. You're pissed off. And I do understand why. But I won't let you act recklessly because you're having a bad day."

He clenches his teeth. "This has nothing to do with _anything._ "

It is her turn to chuckle darkly. "Really, Peter? You're going to look me square in the eyes and tell me that you don't _always_ tend to behave irrationally every year, when you get the card?"

He sees red. Or black. Whatever color it is, it just makes him want to throw something out the window. How dare she? How can she just spring the card on him like this, when he has purposefully thrown it in the trash hours ago?

As always, he had tried to ignore whatever drawing there was on it, but it was difficult, kids birthday cards are obnoxiously colorful. This one ridiculously depicted a pirate holding out a sword and saying " _Hey Matey! Heard it was your ARGHHHday!"_

Peter doesn't know what was the most revolting, the big red number 6 on the top left corner, or the pirate's wicked grin. Looking at it, Peter had felt like Walternate was staring right back at him, taunting him. There's some progress though.

He doesn't throw up after opening the card anymore.

On the other hand, the anger that always comes along with his suffocating guilt is still as virulent, if not worse. Something else he will never admit out loud.

"This has nothing to do with the card," he says then, almost in a growl. "It has everything to do with me being tired of being reactive."

"Don't lie to me," she replies, her voice worryingly calm. "We are above those petty lies. I don't want to patronize you, Peter. I know how you feel, but you can't let Walternate get to you that way, it's exactly what he wants."

"You never know when it's the right time for you to stop interfering with what doesn't concern you, Olivia," he says then in a very low voice. "I don't need you to pretend you understand, because you don't. I need you to let me go do my job without _indeed_ patronizing me in front of the entire division."

Even through his angry haze, he registers every single sign of hurt that she briefly displays, as she recoils slightly, as if he had physically slapped her; these eyes of hers lose their deadly gleam to be filled with honest _pain_ , and her whole body seems to curl up into itself.

He knows how preposterous and unfair that was; if anyone knows what it feels like to be reminded year after year of something you've done, it is her. And she _can_ understand what it's like, to feel responsible for the death of a child. In three sentences, he has not only denigrated the mutual trust they have spent years building, but also her own pain.

It only lasts a second, and it lashes out at his heart.

But she's just as good as him, first trying to mask it, and when it doesn't work, she morphs it back to anger, offering him her darkest look to date.

"Fine," she says then, terribly coldly. Her voice is quivering slightly, but he knows it's from her infuriation, as she is well decided not to show any more sign of hurt. "Go ahead, Peter. Do whatever you want. But when you end up dead, you can come and tell me ' _You were right_ '."

And without another word or glance, she leaves the room with a slam of the door.

Peter doesn't die. He _does_ end up pretty broken up, though.

When he opens his eyes for the first time in what feels like days –which is most likely the case, it only takes a few second for his blurry gaze to fall on her, a dark shape in the almost inexistent light of his hospital room.

She's in one of these uncomfortable armchairs, legs curled up under her. With an elbow on her knee, her forehead is resting on the heel of her hand. Her eyes are closed, but he knows she's not sleeping. Judging by her outfit and messy ponytail –the opposite of her work attire- she has gone home at least once since he's last seen her; that alone proves that he was out of it for some time.

As always, she immediately seems to feel his gaze on her; turning her head slightly, she opens her eyes to meet his. She doesn't say anything, her hand simply curling into a fist, pressing her knuckles to her lips. They stare at each other for the longest time, the only sound in the room being the regular ' _beep beep'_ of his heart monitor.

He eventually tries to move a little to release some of the growing ache in his back, but that was a bad idea; pain literally shoots down his spine, before spreading in his entire body, making his heart rate peek.

"How long was I out?" He manages to ask once he's done grimacing and grunting in pain. Even speaking hurts.

He sees her glance up at what must be a clock on the opposite wall, before she lowers her eyes back to his.

"Fifty-four hours…" she whispers against her fingers, and though it doesn't register on his monitor, his heart aches atrociously.

It only worsens when his brain, finally forced to wake up with all those jolts of pain, starts to work more efficiently, and he remembers in details their last 'conversation'. She's still piercing him with her eyes, and even though it is dark and she's too far, he knows. He _knows_ just how much worry and pain he has put her through.

"I'm sorry…" he whispers, and his throat is now painful for other reasons. "You were right. I was an idiot."

She finally moves, slowly, dropping her hand and straightening up a little. "Yes, you were." Her voice sounds as constricted as his, as if it's the first time she's really using it in over two days.

"I'm sorry," he repeats, trying to sit up, but that was another stupid thing to do. He hisses in pain, white dots dancing in front of his eyes. When they disappear, he sees that she's looking even graver than she was a few seconds ago.

"Before I call a nurse so she can dose you up with more morphine, let me ask you something." Her voice is already steadier, sounding the way she usually does when she's about to debrief him on a new case. "How do you think you'd feel, if I got myself killed for some stupid reasons, because of a wrong choice and some misplaced emotions?"

He swallows hard, unable to do anything but stare at her, at his wife, at his only steady ground in this unstable life. He feels like telling her that he would most likely simply cease to exist.

But he knows now is not the time for one his grand speeches.

"I'm sorry," he says for the third time instead, because he feels like he could say it a thousand times, and it still wouldn't be enough to take back the hurt.

"So am I, Peter," she almost snaps at him, clearly mad again.

When she gets up, it is her bones' turn to snap loudly, suggesting just how long she had been sitting there by his side. His entire being fills with dread for an instant, convinced that she's simply going to leave the room.

But she doesn't.

She makes her way to the bed instead, and without a word, she lies down next to him, over the covers. He still cannot move to try and give her more room, but she doesn't seem to care. She's on the verge of falling, and she doesn't care, bringing her face closer to his.

The way he turns his neck to be able to look at her instantly sends more pain down his back, but he doesn't give a damn, now that he can finally see her and the storm invading her eyes. She seems unable to settle for one emotion, trapped between anger and desperation.

"You have to stop doing this, Peter," she whispers. "Behaving harshly and dangerously when you're in pain, almost getting yourself killed.

"I know…" he whispers back. "I won't do it again."

Her face constricts in pain, and she averts her eyes, bringing a hand up to gently stroke his slightly sweaty hair, before briefly resting her palm on what must be a beard by now. Her fingers finally stop on his chest over his pounding heart, and she looks back up at him.

"You can't just leave me here alone…" Her voice is barely audible now, and yet it hurts in every way.

They both know she is not one to admit that she needs someone, but they also know that it doesn't apply when it comes to him. They've made that clear a long time ago, when they accepted the fact that they wouldn't survive long without one another.

The fact that he has dismissed it, dismissed _her_ in a moment of madness is written all over face, swirling into her glistening irises, vestige of the Glimmer he knows must have been surrounding him for some time.

"I won't," is all he can answer, all he can promise, because what they know as well is that sometimes, the choice simply isn't theirs.

But it is, occasionally, and he owes it to himself as much as to her not to shorten his life because he cannot cope with his pain.

Right now, it is his physical pain that he chooses to ignore, bringing his hand up to his chest so he can cover her fingers with his, squeezing them. And as she moves even closer to him, closing her eyes and pressing her nose against his, he silently prays that she won't break that promise either.

_(February 2017)_


	13. XIII.

**XIII.**

"You know," he grunts, moving another pile of boxes around, "not to sound redundant or anything, but now would _really_ be a good time for you to practice your superpowers and help me find it."

Olivia doesn't move from where she is sitting on the floor –or rather where she has slumped down a minute ago after they were done bringing the last boxes in. The ones she's leaning against all have "LIVING ROOM" written over their side.

"It's not like I can just go 'ACTION' and it will fly to me, like that geek in glasses does," she answers back.

He snorts, still roaming around. "I'm gonna speak for Ella and tell you that it's ' _accio'_ , not 'action'…and I only know that because she forced me to marathon the movies with her _again_ last weekend when you were working."

"Geek…" she mutters under her breath.

He would have replied with something just as sweet if his gaze hadn't fallen upon what he had been looking for.

"Ah ah!" he exclaims, bending down to grab the beer pack. Getting two out, he then makes his way back to her through the sea of boxes in which they have packed all of their life.

When he hands a bottle out for her to take, she makes a face. A very flushed, drained face. He just loves how her hair seems to get a life of its own whenever she exhausts herself –in any way. Today, strands of it have escaped her braid, now wildly standing up all around her head.

"This is warm," she scowls.

He smirks. "Well, if you can find the kitchen, feel free to go get yourself a glass of cold water. I'm not going back out there."

She narrows her eyes but finally accepts the beer, and he sits down opposite her, against what must be the back of the couch; she stretches her legs out, sliding them between his. They open their bottles in perfect sync, and he then holds his out to her with a smile.

"To a fresh –lukewarm- start."

She chuckles but touches his bottle with her own, before they both take a sip of the liquor, quickly making similar faces.

"Okay, this is dreadful," he admits, putting the beer down as she laughs at his defeat, and his hands automatically find her bare feet, distractingly massaging her toes.

She looks around, rolling the beer bottle between her fingers, looking both contented and a bit overwhelmed. They both know she's not looking forward to the next step; she's never been much into cleaning and organizing. He decides then to make it fun.

"You know what we're supposed to do now," he says in his most cheerful voice.

Her eyes are still taking in the colossal amount of boxes all around the place. "Unpack all of these?" She sounds slightly desperate.

"Uh uh," he shakes his head. "We have to have sex in every room of the house. To make it 'ours', you know. That's what _they_ say."

She finally brings her gaze back to him, raising an amused eyebrow, offering him a crooked smile. "Oh, really. I think _they_ also say that we're supposed to fall into a routine and stop having sex within the next few years as well."

"Clearly not the same group of people."

"Statistics are statistics."

"Ah, but we both know we don't exactly belong in the 'normal' category."

"Why? Because I have a drug in my brain that presumably allows me to make things float like Harry Potter?"

"Or because you're married to a man who comes from another universe."

He says it jokingly, without thinking, lost into their banter. But as soon as the words escape his mouth, it's like someone has poured ice over his head.

It is sometimes sickeningly _easy_ for him, to just forget that he has destroyed that entire universe, and all the people in it.

She sees the sudden reappearance of his self-loathing of course –might feel it too when his fingers contract around her toes. She doesn't say a word, though, simply looking at him, tilting her head slightly. He averts his gaze, which falls on his beer. He hastily brings it to his lips and takes an impressive mouthful of it, proof of just how uncomfortable he now feels. It really is all kind of nauseating.

From the corner of his eyes, he notices that she has stopped playing with her own bottle, and the lack of movement makes him look back at her face. She's not looking at him anymore; her eyes have dropped to his chest, looking blurry, as if her mind was miles away from here. At first, he thinks it's simply because she feels just as uncomfortable as him and doesn't know what to say or do. But after at least one long minute of this deafening silence and her vacant gaze on his shirt, he frowns.

"Olivia?" he calls softly.

"Shhh…" she barely murmurs, and he realizes then that she looks _focused_.

He understands what she's doing just in time to look down at his chest and see the first button of his shirt unbutton itself.

When he raises his eyes again, she's offering him a victorious smile.

"Niiiiiice," he can't help but smile as well. "By the time you learn to strip me of all my clothes, we _will_ be one of these old and bitter couples who never have sex anymore, so it won't be much use."

A flying beer cap hits his forehead; she hasn't bothered this time and has thrown it with her hand. They then -very maturely- playfully scowl at each other.

"You know, to be honest, I don't think we're gonna grow old and bitter together," she says next.

This earns her his best confused, pouting frown.

"Only six months of marriage and you're already getting tired of me? Is there something you wanna share, honey?"

She chuckles and shakes her head, finally putting her beer down. "That's not what I meant. I'm sure we'll grow old together, I just don't think we necessarily have to become bitter."

He smirks. "Wanna develop on that?"

His smile grows wider when she moves to join him, sitting next to him back against the couch, arm to arm, thigh to thigh, and she rests her chin on his shoulder, looking up at him.

"You're my best friend," she tells him simply, shrugging slightly. "So even if, _God forbid_ , we do stop having sex, I'm pretty sure I'll still love being around you."

It is always so sudden, and almost unexpected. Not only her rare and precious admissions of how much she cares for him, but the intense waves of deep affection he feels for her as well. Those two often go together. He feels so strongly that it blocks the air in his lungs, making him strangely aware of every inch of his skin, and hers.

As she absently brushes her lips against his shoulder, looking at him with nothing but sheer honesty in her eyes, he feels very breathless indeed.

And so he leans in to press a kiss on the tip of her nose, before saying just as honestly: "I love you."

She smiles against his shoulder. "But you love sex too," she whispers with a laugh in her eyes.

"Damn right I do."

And he grabs her without warning, causing her to let out a squeal of surprise, which turns into a purr when she ends up straddling his lap with his hands under her top tank and his mouth against her jugular. She smells sweaty and sweet and tantalizing, a scent so hers that he wouldn't mind starting owning their new home right here on the floor, especially when she tugs at his hair to bring his mouth up to hers, and the beer tastes much sweeter on her tongue, if you asked him.

He mindlessly marvels on how one could ever get tired of this, of feeling the woman you love alighting in your hands, of her nails scrapping the back of your head as she cups your jaw, of her heaving chest against yours. They have kissed a thousand times, and yet it is always exhilarating. She's passionate, and he loves being scorched by her blazing touch.

In all honesty, she feels more liberated than she has been in months. The reasons behind the thick darkness in her eyes are more than valid of course, and he can't say his burden isn't heavy either. But right now, lost between boxes and wrapped furniture, the way she kisses him fills his heart with genuine hope, and he wonders if their change of scenery truly has something to do with it.

Maybe they have left some of their darkness in boxes they didn't bring along.

Once again, she seems to read his mind, because when their kissing stops and they find themselves simply staring into each other's eyes for long seconds, nose to nose and breaths mingling, she eventually whispers against his lips:

"Fresh start, right?"

For a moment there, he sees it all again, everything they don't talk about, everything she will never be able to lock away, no matter how hard she tries; he knows how sometimes, he's the only reason why she's trying at all. He wants nothing more than to make it all disappear, though he knows it's impossible, and that's alright, because he will keep trying for her, too. He loves the shadows in her eyes as much as he loves the sound of her laugh.

He brings a hand up to her face, palm on her cheek, and nods against her.

"Fresh starts," he confirms.

She nods too, before slowly dropping her head, and she presses her face against the side of his neck, breathing in deeply, one of her hands still warm on his nape as he encircles her in his arms.

"I love you…" she whispers against his skin, and he closes his eyes, tightening his embrace.

Breathing is overrated, anyway.

_(May 2016)_


	14. XIV.

**XIV.**

Olivia is being oddly quiet today.

Admittedly, she is not the most talkative woman to begin with, but there is quiet and _quiet_.

Peter can lie to himself and pretend that happiness is the reason behind her demeanor, that she feels so happy it's rendering her speechless…but he knows her, and he has learned the hard way to recognize happiness in _her_. He knows how she in fact tends to open up a lot more easily when she feels particularly joyful and uncharacteristically optimistic; he knows all of her silences, too.

Even though there definitely is a soft glow around her today, he can tell that her silence is linked to pain, a low and quiet kind of pain.

She still speaks when the time is right, though, when asked if she promises to affirm him, respect him, and care for him during times of joy and hardship, to commit herself to share her feelings of happiness and sadness as long as they both shall live, for example. She looks at him as she answers; her eyes are soft, and so is her smile, and she tells him more with that look than these two words ever will, looking almost serene for a fleeting instant.

Isn't it what they've been doing for years, after all?

"I do," she says, and though he has always known her to be an assertive woman, she has never sounded more sure of anything.

His touch is slightly shaky when he slides the golden ring on her finger, but when he looks up at her, she's smiling reassuringly and lovingly. When they are officially declared 'husband and wife', his index finger curls up under her chin and he leans in to kiss his bride, feeling her smile widening against his lips as she presses her palm upon his drumming heart.

 _My wife_ , he thinks, and if Astrid hadn't already been doing enough crying for everybody present in the room, he might have shed a tear or two himself. He learns that day that there is nothing quite like marrying the love of your life to make a romantic at heart like him feel elated for at least two or three weeks, he guesses.

And maybe it simply makes a less romantic woman very quiet, he thinks, as she keeps on being exceedingly silent for most of the day.

He's not worried that she's regretting her choice. If anything, he has given her plenty of opportunities to 'back off' during the four months that have followed his proposal, as work seemed to constantly forced them to postpone the ceremony's date; every time he had told her that they didn't _have_ to get married if she had changed her mind, she had rolled her eyes and said something along the lines of ' _If I didn't know better, I'd think you're the one getting cold feet._ '

What worries him is the simple fact that she has something to be distressed about, today. Sure, their lives haven't exactly been easy these past few years, and she has too many reasons to be upset about, but he wishes he could just make her forget it all, at least for one day…or one night, at that point.

It is just the two of them, now, back in their apartment; they are still all dressed up, though definitely less neatly than they were ten hours ago. Despite the civility of it all, Olivia had surprised everybody by wearing a white dress, instead of any light color she could have chosen. It's simple and quite plain, nothing fancy at all, but she looks beautiful. She has even let Astrid and Ella do something complicated with her hair, something braid-ish that involved flowers, but she had taken those out hastily, pointing out the fact that she didn't want to look like a decorated table. He's not one to brag, but he guesses he doesn't look too bad himself in his suit.

Though by now, all he really wants to do with these clothes is get them off their skins within the hour, and she knows it. She offers him a knowing look when he hands her a glass of champagne.

"Are you trying to get me drunk?" she asks with a smile, accepting the glass, before touching his with hers.

"I don't need to get you drunk anymore, honey," he answers cheerfully as she drinks. "You are now legally obligated to have intercourse with me."

This causes her to spit some of her champagne back into her glass, and he loves that her smile is brighter than it has been all day; she seems generally more relaxed, too. He leaves her standing there with her champagne for a minute to go put some music on. Though everybody in this world now uses Ipods and other highly advanced technology, he's still very fond of Walter's old music player and wide collection of vinyl. The one he puts on tonight is nothing new, though, and he turns around to watch her face as the first notes of a vaguely yet intimately familiar song fill the room.

She tilts her head, before shaking it slowly, still smiling as he makes his way back to her.

"Are you afraid I'm going to turn you down tonight?" She's amused and he loves it. "You don't need to pull out the big guns, Peter, I want to enjoy my wedding night, too."

He chuckles, taking the glass off her hand and putting it down with his on the table to free his hands, before turning back to her; he slides his arms around her waist, and she wraps hers around his neck. When their bodies are appreciatively closer, he whispers in her ear:

"This song brought us good luck in the past, I thought it was appropriate."

As they start spinning slowly to the music, cheek to cheek, it's her turn to chuckle. "You're attributing what happens that night to a _song_? If you asked me, you should thank the alcohol I brought."

He presses a kiss behind her ear, smiling foolishly. "Let's be honest here, we both know it was my charm alone that got you in my bed."

She lets out another soft chuckle against his neck, and a few seconds pass before she says: "Actually, I think it was mostly due to me deciding to try and be happy, for once." Though her voice is graver, he can still hear her smile.

He tightens his embrace, breathing her in as they sway slowly on the spot, getting lost in the melody as much as in the feel of her, one of her arms now wrapped around his waist, her other hand buried in his hair. But he eventually pulls away slightly to look at her, and even though she smiles softly at him, he knows something is still bothering her.

"Why do I get the feeling that you are not _that_ happy right now, then?"

She frowns and stops their dance, pursing her lips in a confused smile, her fingers sliding down from his hair to the back of his neck. "Of course I am happy," she says softly. "I just married you."

This earns her a soft, tender kiss, which could easily have turned into something else, but he leans his forehead against hers instead, staring intently at her as he makes them move slowly again. "What is it, then?"

She doesn't deny it; they are past denying anything by now. They are simply generally really good at pretending the worst never happened, for both their sanity. Close as they are, he feels her shrug more than he sees it.

"I don't know." She says eventually, lowering her gaze. "It's just that…I've never been a romantic woman, you know? But I can't lie. When you're a girl, from the moment you're born, you're practically brainwashed into thinking about love, and weddings, and how… _perfect_ everything is supposed to be on that special day."

It's his turn to frown and stop their movements, straightening up again to take a better look at her face. She's blushing slightly now, as if almost ashamed of admitting this. Her smile is gone, too.

"You _do_ know that I wasn't opposed to a white wedding, right?" he asks then, because they _have_ discussed it, and he had told her that if she wanted to get married in a church, he would be more than fine with it; she had been the one suggesting that they should just do a civil ceremony with their closest friends.

Her hand moves to his face, cupping his cheek, and she smiles quite sadly. "I know," she says with another tilt of head. "It's not what I mean." He keeps on staring at her, waiting for her to go on, and she sighs, giving in. " I don't care about…the church, or the expensive fluffy dress, or even about the vows. It's more about…" She does that thing with her mouth again, averting her eyes and shaking her head slightly. "It's more about the people who were supposed to be sitting on the benches, you know? I feel like…too many people were missing today, people who deserved to be here."

And as she says these words, her eyes briefly dart to what he knows is the guestroom's door behind his back. A guestroom that almost became something else, not so long ago. But her gaze doesn't linger there, bringing her eyes back to his, and he feels a familiar pang in his chest as he stares at her, feeling the weight of her words. The line is back between her eyes, that little line that automatically appears whenever she's upset, even when she tries her best not to show it.

Slowly, he leans his forehead against her again and starts spinning them around, just as slowly.

"Do you know why I asked you to marry me?" He asks then, and the corners of her mouth twitch a little; they both know he didn't exactly _ask_ her.

"Because I was vulnerable and emotionally drained, and you knew I was less likely to turn you down?" She's trying to sound casual, and failing spectacularly, because she remembers that day as well as he does, and there really is nothing funny about it. He decides to ignore her answer.

"I asked you because I thought…' _It can't get worse than this'."_

She makes another face. "That's nice, Peter. Perfect reason to propose to a woman."

"I'm serious," he says, and his voice is low and almost stern; she offers him a smile that is almost apologetic, nuzzling his nose with hers, fingers ruffling the short hair on the back of his head.

"I know," she whispers, and he knows she's just trying to forget about it all, about what happened four months ago, and before that, and before that…she's trying to forget, and so is he, but ultimately, they both know they will never forget.

It still shapes them, their life together and who they are, in so many ways, no matter how painful it is. Again, they are usually good at ignoring it all, at pretending that they are _fine_ , just fine, because they're still here, together, and they can go through it all, one day at a time. But today is a special day.

He doesn't want her memories of this day to be filled with regrets and 'what ifs'.

"These past few years have been…really hard, on both us. As individuals, and as a couple," he says eventually, his voice now the only sound in the room; the song has ended, and they have unconsciously stilled too, solely focused on one another. "It's been hard on the entire planet, too, of course, but we both know that what really matters ultimately is _our_ daily life, _our_ personal world, because we're human, and humans have this limited perception on things. We suffer through hard times and…loses. But you said it yourself. ' _We still have each other_.'"

As he speaks, his fingers have instinctively found their way back to her face, his nails grazing her cheek as her eyes steadily get shinier and shinier.

"So yeah, there you were, vulnerable and emotionally drained. And I thought, ' _It can't get worse than this, but we're still here.'_ And I still want to be here for you ten years from now. I wanted you to marry me because there was absolutely no reason why you shouldn't marry me and be mine. I wanted you to be mine to the rest of the world, too. Because you're all I've got, Olivia."

When he finally stops talking, she is quiet alright. She simply stares at him for what feels like the longest time, that line deeper as her beautiful face contracts with the strength of whatever feelings he has created within her; he hopes they are mostly _positive_ feelings.

Her eyes are definitely watery now, but she doesn't cry. She even manages a smile, before she starts shaking her head softly against his, and her voice is slightly hoarse when she speaks. "You know, I wish I had your way with words, at times."

He's smiling too, now, just as softly. "What do you mean?"

She shrugs again. "Well, whenever you're feeling particularly inspired, you come up with those great, wonderful speeches. It's quite beautiful, to be honest. And it's hard to deny you anything, afterwards."

He thinks briefly that she's not too bad with words herself; not bad all, actually. They both have issues when it comes to expressing their feelings, and while he tends to ramble for a few minutes before getting to the point, Olivia is straight forward.

She doesn't open up often, and yes, she might not be as romantic as he is, but when she wants to let him know how she feels, she hits the spot right away. Even thought it was a few years back, now, he still remembers her vividly; red hair and despair written all over her face, wearing her heart on her sleeve.

' _Because you belong with me,'_ she had said.

She definitely has a way with words, too.

He could point it out to her, make her realize just how much power her words have on him…but he thinks better of it. She seems lighter already, her hand now moving slowly but decidedly over his back, in a quiet promise of what is to come tonight.

And so he lets it go, choosing to dissipate the tension a bit instead. "Well, I wish I had your aim, so I guess we really complete each other."

But letting herself be smothered by the intensity of what she is feeling has always rivaled with his romantic self, so she doesn't exactly let it go. She closes her eyes, then, and she looks both serene and overwhelmed as her fingers tighten their hold on his nape, her other hand tracing soft patterns on his back, and she lets out a deep sigh, her breath warm and comforting on his lips.

 _My wife_ …he thinks again.

And again, and again, and again.

"Yeah…we really do," she eventually murmurs.

_(November 2015)_


	15. XV.

**XV.**

"I don't want to go."

Ella's voice is muffled against Olivia's shirt, but it's still loud enough to reach both Peter's and her father's ears. Not that Peter cares much about Greg's feelings at the moment.

He's staring at the man standing by his car, and looking more than ready to get the hell out of here. Peter knows that it's not _exactly_ Greg's fault if he is forced to witness these heartbreaking goodbyes, but he needs to direct his anger at something. Or someone. And awkward, nerdy Greg Blake, with his square glasses and untidy clothes, is the perfect target.

So Peter shamelessly stares and stares, arms crossed, eyes dark and jaw set, as the man's fingers tap-tap nervously on the edge of the open car door, staring back.

Meanwhile, Ella is still attached to Olivia's waist in the middle of the sidewalk.

"We'll see each other soon, I promise," Olivia tells her softly. "And you can call me as soon as you get home, okay?"

Probably for the thousandth time this month, Peter is amazed by how Olivia is dealing with Ella's desperation to stay with her, with them, even though she can't. He knows Olivia wants nothing more than to keep her niece by her side, and yet she never indulges herself, never shows her own feelings on the matter, not in front of the girl in any case. She doesn't want Ella to resent her father for their separation.

On the other hand, she has been quite virulent and passionate on the subject with their lawyer.

" _There is no way around this, Olivia,"_ said layer was telling her only yesterday, in a tired, irritated voice, because they had been over this hundreds of times, and he was about done with her stubbornness. " _The best way for you to act if you want regular contacts with Ella is to be civilized with her father, because he's the one who's going to let her visit you…or take her away for good if you give him reasons to do so."_

He wouldn't 'do so', Peter is sure of it. The man is unprepared for this, for fulltime parenthood.

Sure, he knows Greg had asked for custody once when he and Rachel had filed for divorce, but Olivia had learned later on that it had been prompted by the grandmother –who had since then passed away. These past few years, Greg had seen Ella on weekends and holidays, but Ella had told her aunt not two months ago that she liked coming to their place better.

Except that Rachel is gone now, and Greg is not.

From the very moment Olivia had told him she was going to try and get Ella's custody, at the girl's request, Peter had known it was a lost cause. Greg may not be the smartest bloke around or the most affectionate father, he still _is_ her father, and no judge would ever take a child away from their living parent, as long as they had a fixed income and was not a threat. If the case even went to a judge at all, that was.

It hadn't.

It had all happened between lawyers within the course of three weeks; three hectic, draining, unfathomable weeks during which Peter had had to watch Olivia juggle between dealing with her sister's death, her niece's grief, the swirling vortex in Detroit, legal researches and countless arguments with their lawyer. He had watched her, knowing how it would end, but there was no stopping her.

He let her try without saying a word, because how could he _not_?

She had been as driven as ever. This had been her new fight, what she'd clung to with all her might so she wouldn't think about Detroit, about that Event that had killed so many people so fast, her sister included, because Rachel had been in the wrong place, at the wrong time.

The worst time.

And yet day after day, Peter could see Olivia staggering at the edge of something deep and dark, as the harsh reality slowly swallowed her whole, and it was Ella's turn to slip through her fingers. She fought with every ounce of determination she had in her, but it had been useless, and she'd had no other choice than to eventually admit defeat.

It takes a lot to bring Olivia Dunham down, and this will not be without consequences.

It's only logical for Peter to feel so much anger about it all, because anger is still how he deals with situation like…this. It's simply _unfair_ , all of this. He cannot grasp it, cannot understand why life is being so hard and unyielding, why he has to watch Olivia being knocked down again and again and again, and every time she manages to get back on her feet, she takes a new blow, always straight to the heart. And to be honest, he's in no better shape.

Because ultimately, he knows it's all his fault. He has disrupted balance in the worst possible way when he destroyed the Other Side, and now he has to pay.

And he can't help thinking about how they were finally starting to feel _normal_ again, after what happened less than a freaking year ago; their life had started to feel like theirs, instead of some fake, rehearsed play they performed every day, as they slowly adjusted under the weight of this new heavy burden.

It's never easy to expect hope and receive pain instead, but they had been dealing, like they always were.

Until _this_.

Greg's brave face finally falls under Peter's deathly glare, and without a word, he simply gets into the car and closes his door, deciding it's safer for him to wait in there.

"I'll be fifteen in four years," Ella is now saying. "I'll get emancipated and I'll come live with you and Peter."

Having lost his distraction, Peter has no other choice than to turn his gaze to the girls, just as Olivia crouches down to be at Ella's level, the saddest smile on her lips. "Where did you hear that, sweetie?" she asks softly.

Ella snuffles, wiping her nose on her sleeve. "I've seen it on TV." She whispers, and then: "I don't want to live with dad."

Olivia has discussed this with her too many times already, but the girl is stubborn.

She cups her niece's cheeks in both her hands, still smiling that heartbreaking smile of hers. "I won't tell you that you can't get emancipated if you want to once you turn fifteen, because that would be a lie. But four years is a long time to go, Ella, and I don't want you to live these years just waiting for this to happen, instead of adjusting to your new life."

"I don't want a new life…" Ella murmurs, more tears rolling down her cheeks, trails that Olivia wipes off softly with her thumbs. "I want mom."

Olivia presses her lips hard together, and even from where he stands, Peter can see it; the crack getting deeper, wider, and his insides just _hurt_.

"I know, baby girl," she murmurs, tucking a wild strand of brown hair behind her ear. "But she would want you to try. She would want you to keep on being this sweet, kind, clever girl, to do your best, to work hard at school so you can do whatever you want when you grow up."

Ella straightens up slightly then, using her sleeve again to clean her face. "I already know what I wanna be."

Olivia manages a smile that is almost sincere. "What's that?"

"I want to be like you," Ella answers, and she sounds dead serious. "I want to save people."

Olivia wasn't expecting this, and her shock is honest and bare, especially when the meaning of these words sinks in. Her face contracts, hard, and her breathing becomes shallow; Peter knows she's using every last bit of control she has to keep a straight face on. In three weeks, she hasn't cried once in front of Ella, no matter how many times she has rocked the girl to sleep as she sobbed against her, and he knows she would hate to 'fail' now.

"I can't always save everybody," she whispers, shaking her head softly, and she seems to be telling it to herself as much as to her niece.

' _I couldn't save her,'_ is what she's really saying.

Or _her_.

"I know," Ella says just as quietly. "But you always try. That's what…that's what mom used to say, when I asked about your work. She said it was very dangerous, but you got to save people, and even when you couldn't, you always tried. She said that's why you were a hero."

There is nothing Olivia can do but close her eyes, then, wrapping her niece in a breathtaking hug, and Peter can see it in every detail of her constricted face, how hard she is still fighting against that wave and those cracks and the _pain_ , still threatening to break her apart from the inside.

"I love you, baby girl," she whispers in the girl's ear. "Just…try, okay?"

Ella eventually nods against her shoulder, and he can tell she's crying again. "I'll try."

They break apart and Olivia offers her a big, fake, watery smile. "That's the spirit." She then stands up on shaky legs and quickly opens the rear door of the car before turning back to Ella. "We'll come and get you in two weeks, okay?"

Ella looks like the saddest child in the world, but she eventually nods again, walking to the car. Before she gets in, she turns to Peter and offers him a weak wave that he returns.

"Call us as soon as you get there," he tells her in a hoarse voice, because he has to say something, right?

"I will…" she mutters, getting in the car, and Olivia closes the door.

Greg has rolled his window down and is now looking up at her. He opens his mouth, and then closes it, once, twice, until he simply gives up, starting the engine. "We'll arrange a time," he says, and he's on the road seconds later.

They can see Ella looking at them though the rear window, and Olivia waves at her, her smile still painfully fake. She keeps on waving until the car turns left at the second intersection. Her raised hand slowly comes down, bringing her fingers to her lips as her eyes gets blurry and vacant, lost in the distance.

It is mere seconds before her body starts to shake slightly, as if she was suddenly incredibly cold, and all he can do is stare, knowing deep inside his guts that this is it, what he has been dreading and expecting for months.

This is the moment she stops fighting, because she has nothing left to fight for.

He has seen her go through the most horrendous times, and it's not that she hasn't cried or shown desperation, but she has never yielded to it, she has always wiped her tears away, always managed to morph her emotions into something else, refusing to give up.

But as she stands there in the street, her face blank, almost in confusion, wondering maybe where her last thread of hope has gone, he can see her standing at the edge of that dark, merciless pit, about to fall in.

She has reached her breaking point.

Her hand leaves her face and she wraps both her arms around herself, trying to contain the tremors shaking her body as her face starts to twitch and her nostrils flare, eyes now roaming the street. It's as if she's desperately looking for something to hold on to.

But there's nothing left out there. All there is is this slowly dying world in which she's forced to watch every person she loves die or be taken away.

Except for him, of course.

When her body turns and she instinctively locks eyes with him, he swears he can hear the sound of her heart breaking, promptly followed by his. She averts her eyes incredibly fast, though, turning around completely and making her way back inside the building without a single word. She's retreating, because there's no way she's going to fall apart here, in the middle of the sidewalk. And maybe she doesn't want to fall apart in front of him either.

And he almost lets her be, for a second or two, wondering if he should just go down the street and enter the first bar he can find, so that he can just…forget. But the thought shatters away; there are times when he knows she needs to be by herself to deal with her pain, times when his fear of having to face this broken image of Olivia makes him want to run away, but this is not one of these times.

He doesn't want it to be.

He goes in and intuitively makes his way to the bedroom. He stops in the doorway just as she sinks down onto the bed, sliding her right arm under the pillow, her knees coming up to her chest. And she turns her face, hides it in the pillow, curling into herself, and he thinks almost in wonder about how _quiet_ everything always seems to be during these times of sorrow.

Because her shoulders start to shake, unmistakable proof that she has let the pain take over and let herself cry, and yet there is no heartbreaking sobbing sound. Admittedly, his heart is thumping so hard under his chest and against his ears that he might simply be deaf to anything else.

Feeling numb, he joins her on the bed, lying down behind her, and he can actually hear her now, being closer; he hears her harsh intakes of breath and the somewhat silent hiccups of her sobs, muffled in the pillow, and he reaches out for her. When his fingers touch her back, he almost expects her to flinch and move away from his touch, like she had once, years ago, when she had been just as vulnerable sitting in a stranger's garden.

She doesn't, though.

Actually, it's like his touch pushes her completely over the edge, and everything is a swirl and a blur then as she moves, turning around to cling to him, and he feels the death grip of her fingers on his shirt, her knee painfully digging into his hip; but most of all, he feels her face pressed against his chest, and there's no hiding her sobs now. They reverberate through him, shake him to the core, and he thought he knew pain but _this_ is pain, and all he can do is hold her as tight as he can, one hand tangled in her hair, the other one having slipped under her shirt so she can feel the warmth of his palm upon her skin, feel that he's _here_.

And she cries.

She cries for what seems to be hours, might be hours, has to be hours. He has seen her cry before, but this is something else; this is something he's sure not many people have witnessed, and maybe he should feel special because she's letting him be here, but he just feels miserable because no one should ever have to witness someone else breaking down that way, especially not Olivia, and it becomes incredibly hard for him not to let his own sorrow engulf him, too.

He loses track of time, track of everything that is not her falling apart in his arms, his body numbed by the intensity of her tremors. And he can't really tell when exactly she has started to quiet down, when her fingers have loosened their grip, or when her body has stopped being so tensed under his hand. Her breathing remains unsteady against his now drenched shirt, the air still coming out of her lungs in spasmodic gulps, until that stops, too.

For a timeless moment there, he thinks that she may have fallen asleep, but then she moves, uncurling herself slightly against him to bring her face up to his, and she's definitely not asleep.

They just stare at each other, faces inches away.

He knows she's still crying. Her face is too wet with tears for them to form any more trails, but he sees it at the corner of her eyes, the one he can really see anyway; there is this small ripple, there, like an endless leak. And she looks so… _defeated_ , pale skin with patches of pink, these beautiful, worn out eyes of hers barely blinking, just staring back, bearing into his soul.

He quietly slides his hand out from under her shirt to bring it up to her face, gently pushing away wet strands of hair that have stuck to her cheek, tucking them behind her ear, and the ripple is still there, and so is the ache in his heart.

 _This is love_ , he guesses.

He has known for years that he loves her, of course, has told her quite a few times, maybe not often enough, but that's not the point. The point is that at that instant, when all they are doing is stare at each other while he watches her cry her very soul out in silence, he would be willing to give up his life to make her pain stop. It's not chivalrous, it's not even romantic.

It's simply brutally true.

 _just leave her alone just leave her alone just leave her alone just leave her alone just leave her alone just leave her alone…_ is what his still painfully thumping heart seems to be saying, because it can't be worse than this, can it?

It is only when she brings her hand up to his face and brushes his cheek with her fingertips that he becomes aware of the wetness on his own skin. He realizes then that she's not simply crying because of her pain, not anymore.

She's crying for him, too.

And it all becomes very clear.

"Marry me."

He whispers these two words as if they were the most natural thing to say, as if he had been planning this for months. Which couldn't be farther away from the truth.

He cannot lie, he _has_ thought about proposing to her in the past. He actually used to think about it often when she was pregnant; he had had every intention of asking her once the baby was born, because it _was_ natural and logical.

But everything had turned dark, then, and he had never asked.

And he's still not asking now, not really. He's just pointing out the obvious.

She's as broken as she ever will be – _because it can't get worse than this, it can't._ And yet, she's still here, and so is he. They still have each other.

She's all he's got, and he can now say, not without a sob in his heart, that he's all she's got, too. And she knows it. He sees it in her eyes, as she simply stares at him, her fingers still brushing his cheek in a gentle caress.

Amazingly, he sees the corner of her mouth twitch, then, as she offers him the smallest, heartbreaking smile.

"Okay," she murmurs, moving closer to him, bringing their faces together, pressing the side of her wet nose against his as her fingers leave his cheek to curl into his hair, seeking comfort as much as giving it. "Okay…"

And he closes his eyes, breathing her in deeply. She smells like tears and rain; there even is a hint of hope in her scent.

Tears, rain, and the occasional thread of hope. He guesses that is the pattern of their life.

As long as she's sharing this life with him, he's okay with it.

_(July 2015)_


	16. XVI.

**XVI.**

The ride home from the hospital is not exactly enjoyable.

Olivia is still giving out angry vibes, though the fact that she has chosen to sit next to him on the backseat instead of next to Astrid on front is somewhat reassuring. The morphine he had been dosed up with a while ago now is wearing off, and he feels the pain getting more acute in every aching part of his broken body.

Once again, it's a miracle that he has avoided any real damage (death, for example), but he _has_ a couple of broken ribs, along with many battered bones and muscles, and ugly bruises all over his body. Olivia is in better shape, but she wasn't spared either.

He's able to see her face, even in the darkness of the car, sporting a bad cut over her eyebrow and a darkening bruise on her cheekbone. Her fingers are almost distractedly massaging her right shoulder, an injury he knows must be particularly painful, as this specific spot already tended to throb faintly on rainy days, even before this, vestige of that 'car accident' years ago.

They say time heals all wounds, but it is utter bullshit, to be honest. Some wounds never really heal, even after several years. It shouldn't be that surprising then that their most recent loss still feels so fresh, even after weeks.

Actually, weeks might have turned into months by now. It's hard to keep track of time.

The days go by, each new one resembling the day before that, and the day before that, and he feels like they're stuck in some kind of sticky substance, unable to break free. Or at least that is how he still felt this morning when he woke up and got ready for work.

He remembers coming out of the bathroom and stopping briefly at their bedroom's door to watch her, sitting on the bed. Her shirt had been opened, unbuttoned, and she had been leaning forward to lace her shoes, her hair still free and falling over her shoulder; the curve of her neck had been enticing. But she had raised her eyes, then, their gazes briefly meeting, and she had gotten up hurriedly, her fingers flying to her shirt to close it up.

Before long, she was grabbing her cup of coffee on the dresser and escaping the room, not without saying: _"Hurry up, we're gonna be late_ ," and he had thought -not for the first time- that he'd surely never get to touch her again, and he had felt so numb that he hadn't really cared.

But right now, even though everything hurts like hell, he feels more awake than he has been in weeks.

Barely escaping death does that kind of things to you, he guesses. What is even more thrilling is that he can tell Olivia isn't unaffected either. She's mad –though he's not really sure he understands _why_ , but anger is good, anger is very good. It's so much better than the bitter indifference that seems to have taken hold of her ever since last September. It's not that they don't talk; they work together and share a home, of course they talk. It's just that it feels…off. Forced.

And there is something absolutely terrifying in having the person you love so close to you and yet so distant. He feels completely helpless, wanting to reach for her, but not knowing _how_.

The only time he lets himself be close to her physically is when she sleeps; even _that_ has been disturbed. For the longest time, they use to sleep with him behind her, one of his arms almost always wrapped around her, always keeping some sort of contact. But after losing the baby, she had been a wreck, putting up walls so thick around herself that they felt almost solid, and he had given her space, staring at her back while they both pretended to sleep.

Eventually, she had started sleeping facing him, and he had allowed himself to think that it was her way to be closer to him, unconsciously or not, it didn't matter. It was also the only time he allowed himself to just stare at her openly, sometimes bringing his face close to hers, just to feel the air on his lips every time she exhaled.

At the moment, though, it is her stare on him that he feels, even though his eyes are closed. He keeps them closed, just to see how long she will keep her eyes on him. But the sensation doesn't go away, and so he looks at her, their gazes meeting.

She looks grave, even in the darkness of the car, but he doesn't care, because this feels like the longest they have maintained eye contact in weeks. He's the one who breaks the connection, when a bump in the road causes every inch of his body to be pierced in pain, forcing his eyes closed again.

When Astrid parks the car in front of their building, Olivia opens her door, but she leans forward to talk to the young woman instead of stepping out. "Thanks Astrid. Would you mind picking me up tomorrow so I can go get our car?"

"Nonsense," Astrid shakes her head as Peter grabs the door's handle on his side, decided on opening it by himself. "I'll ask Vincent to do it with me, we'll bring it to you."

"There's no need for you guys to do that," Olivia protests just when Peter manages to open his door, not without a grunt of pain. "I'm fine, I can-" she stops, turning toward Peter. "Peter, don't be stupid, we'll help you out."

And on those words, she gets out of the car. Astrid exchanges a look with him before exiting the car herself.

 _Stupid_. That's nice.

Though surprisingly, he finds himself almost wanting to smile, but his pain is a bit too intense for him to manage it. It had been a while since Olivia had accused him of being stupid, or called him any other kind names.

Swallowing back his pride, he lets the women grab him and help him out of the car. He feels slightly out of it, to be honest, and he can't tell if the pain is rendering him delirious, or if the last of the morphine is kicking in…though he guesses morphine would actually soothe is aches, right?

"Listen," Astrid insists as they make their way to the door. "I know you'll probably be back at work before 2pm tomorrow, but you should take it easy, Olivia."

"I'm _fine_ ," Olivia replies, getting her keys out with her free hand, the one not wrapped around his waist. "The doctor discharged us, didn't he?"

Astrid snorts softly. "The only reason why this poor intern discharged you guys is because he was scared of you, Olivia; he was clearly not happy about letting Peter go."

"I'm fine," Peter mimics his girlfriend, though all the walking is making him feel nauseous again. He knows he surely should have spent the night in the hospital, but as soon as he had woken up, all he had wanted to do was get the hell out of there, and it's pretty much the first thing he had told Olivia when he had realized she was in the room with him.

" _Take me home."_

"You two are just too stubborn for your own good, you really belong together," Astrid sighs as they finally reach the bedroom, and she helps Olivia 'drop him' on the bed. "All I'm saying is…use this time off, spend some time together, just the two of you. Forget work for a while." And she gives them both a meaningful look, which instantly causes the room to start crackling with the unsaid and the tension that comes with it.

Sweet, smart, intuitive Astrid. Of course she has picked up on what is currently going on between them…or what is _not_ going on. Peter keeps his feverish eyes on Olivia, who has turned a bit red, all the while managing to get paler, arms crossed in a defensive stance, lips pursed.

"We'll drop your car off in the afternoon, no discussion," Astrid says, walking out of the room before Olivia explodes.

"Thanks Astrid," Peter says, or rather grunts, from where he lies in the middle of the bed, and he just sees her hand waving in response, already out of sight. Seconds later, the front door closes behind her.

After a long minute of silence during which he simply stares at Olivia while she purposefully avoids his gaze, she turns around, mumbling unhappily: "I'll get you water for your painkillers." And she's out of the room, too.

He sighs, his head pounding, along with every inch of his body it seems, and he wishes he wasn't so broken so he could follow her out and get her to talk to him about why she's so angry. He awkwardly tries to get his shoes off, but even that seems like the hardest task in the world, a world that is all kind of fuzzy and unfocused.

Before he knows it, he realizes that's she's back, having put the glass down on the nightstand, and she is now busy getting his shoes off for him. Next thing to go are his pants; he has known her to be gentler, but he doesn't complain, keeping his eyes on her face; that bruise on her cheek is really nasty, and he feels the urge to bring her closer, to kiss the wounded skin, maybe taste the iron tinge of her dried blood where her eyebrow was cut.

She's unbuttoning his shirt now, still not looking at him, and he feels feverish and cold at the same time, because it's been so long since he has felt her hands on him that even that angry touch is enough to stir his emotions –and something else. He grabs her wrists then to stop her movements, and she looks up at him, her dark gaze locking with his, still hazy.

"Hey," he says softly. "I know I've given you plenty of good reasons to be mad at me in the past, but I'm kinda lost here. Care to share?"

It's obvious that she wants to deny it, deny that there's anything wrong, because everything is fine, oh so fine, their personal life isn't a mess at all. But against all odds, she chooses to answer. "I'm mad because of what you did today, Peter," she admits, freeing her hands from his grip. "It was all kind of reckless and stupid."

He stares at her almost in confusion as she goes around the room to grab the bag of medicine they have brought from the hospital.

"Okay," he says, trying –and failing- to sit up because really, it is not okay, as she wrestles to get a pill bottle open. "I'm not expecting a 'thank you', or even any kind of positive acknowledgment for what I did, but I don't think saving your life was a stupid thing to do."

She stops fighting with the bottle to give him a look that would have scared off more than one man. "That's where you're wrong, it _was_ stupid. I'm not worth it." And she drops her eyes back to the pill bottle, her cheeks flushed, which gives a weird shade of colors to her bruise.

Indignation makes him sit up almost straight then, and his fingers grab the sheets tightly to try and stay up, the muscles of his arms already trembling. " _Excuse_ -me?" he protests. "Have you really known me for six years? 'Cause while I can believe that you would be insecure enough to think that of yourself, I find it almost offending that you think you're not worth the risk to me."

She's still mad, though she has finally won her battle against the bottle and gotten a few pills out. Without a word, she comes back to the bed and uses two fingers to push him back down; he falls back against the pillow with a grunt. "I am not a damsel in distress, Peter, I don't need your rescuing. Open up."

He wants to protest again, but she pushes the pills into his mouth to shut him up, before pouring water in there, almost causing him to choke. And coughing when you have broken bones hurts like hell, incidentally.

He manages to get his coughing fit under control when he sees her make her way out of the bedroom again. "Olivia, come back here," he commands -or rather croaks, and damn, even breathing _hurts_.

She reappears at the doorway, and she's positively fuming now. "Are you seriously trying to order me around?"

He manages a chuckle that mostly sounds like a desperate groan. "I may have taken a blow to the head, I'm still conscious enough not to ever try that. But in case you haven't noticed, I _am_ pretty broken up; it makes it hard for me to run after you. Believe me, I would if I could." She seems to believe his explanation, though anger is still oozing out of her. "How can you say you're not worth being saved?" he asks almost in disbelief.

She stands very still in the doorway, her breathing a bit shallow, and even through his own haze of pain, he sees all the obvious signs of how she's physically hurting, too, in the way she leans against the frame –on her good shoulder. Her face contracts slightly as she fights her emotions; but it all changes then.

He sees her anger slowly morph into something else, something close to desperation and helplessness.

"Who are we kidding, Peter?" she eventually whispers. "We've become one of those couples who can't deal with the loss."

He stares back at her, heart pounding hard, and he knows it's not only caused by his pain anymore, but also by some strange exhilaration, because they are finally _acknowledging_ that they have a problem.

She averts her eyes then, murmuring almost in shame: "I feel like I'm going to wake up one day, and you're just gonna be…gone."

He wishes the painkillers would work faster; it's physically excruciating for him to just _lie_ there on the bed when she's admitting that kind of things. He tries to sit up again, but he simply can't; he already feels at the verge of fainting, and there's no way he's going to pass out _now_.

"Olivia," he says, his voice begging her to look back at him. "You just said it yourself, I almost stupidly died to save your life today. What on earth makes you think I'd ever leave you?"

She shrugs softly, finally meeting his eyes again, and the look on her face is simply heartbreaking. "Nobody wants to live with an empty shell," she whispers.

He shakes his head slowly, swallowing hard, the ache in his heart more unbearable than the ones coursing through his body. "You're not an empty shell," he says softly.

How could anyone able to display so many emotions on their face ever be called 'empty'? Olivia feels too much and too strongly to ever be empty.

But he also knows what kind of emptiness she is thinking about.

His distressed brain cannot help but bring back memories, memories he has been trying to bury more or less successfully, and what he remembers at the moment is what one of their coworkers had told him, a few weeks back. When you go through the kind of tragedy they have gone through, you quickly learn to differentiate different groups of people. There are those who are just awkward, not really knowing how to deal with you and your pain, and they simply tend to avoid you altogether –which is not a bad thing. Then there are people like Astrid, who are quiet but _there_ , offering comfort without being pushy.

And then you have people like Steven Mayers, who think giving you advice and sharing stories is the best way to help you.

" _My wife had three miscarriages, so I can relate, you know?_ _I know it's tough. They cry a lot, they blame everybody and themselves, they don't trust their body anymore, you know? They feel undesirable and everything, but it gets better with time. Just hang in there."_

He remembers thinking that the civil thing to do was to thank him for his 'advice' and express some sort of sympathy for what he and his wife had gone through; but the words had gotten stuck in his throat, because it had hurt too much, and it still was too raw for him to feel sorry for anybody else but Olivia –and himself to some extent.

And quite honestly, he hadn't wanted to be rude by telling him that he didn't think they could 'compare' stories. Miscarriages and stillbirths were not the same thing. Steven hadn't had to watch his wife go through labor and delivery knowing that absolutely nothing could be done to save their child, knowing that it was too late.

Nothing could possibly be worse than Olivia's silent tears that night, or the pleading look on her face through it all.

Though the look she is giving him right now from the doorway isn't far behind. She might not be an empty shell, they still are in worse shape than they have ever been.

"We are having a rough time," he says quietly, because there is no denying that fact. "But we don't have to let it define us. We can deal with it."

Her brow furrows even more as she shakes her head slightly, offering him one of these painful smiles. "How, Peter?" She sounds genuinely lost. "You think I don't _hate_ this? Hate this…routine, hate how we barely look at each other?" Her right hand instinctively moves in front of her as she speaks, but she stops with a hiss of pain. She closes her eyes, her injured arm falling limp at her side, before she adds in a whisper: "I feel stuck. I feel trapped, and I have no idea how to get moving again."

Even though her desperation and pain cause his heart to bleed, her words also are the most hopeful thing he has heard in weeks, and pure _relief_ pours inside of him. Because she feels the same way, and just like him, she wants things to change. He knows it can never be as it was, but it doesn't matter.

What matters is that they can get through this.

"Talking is a good start," he says softly, and she reopens her eyes. "Talking has worked for us in the past, and it can work again. We can do this, one step at a time." She stares at him, still frowning gravely, before nodding shortly. "Also, I don't think you should worry about me taking off in the middle of the night, not in the next few days, anyway. I can barely move, you would have to help me out of the building."

It is a very lame attempt at easing the tension between them, and she lets him know that she's not amused with another slight shake of her head. But she moves, then, slowly making her way to the bed, before lying down next to him, bringing her body and face close to his. When she almost instinctively brings her hand up to rest her palm upon his cheek, he knows the move is painful, but she does it anyway.

His heart is thumping hard in his chest now, as he stares into her eyes, drinking in every detail he hasn't been able to really see in weeks, like the many shades of green in her irises, darker around the edge, sometimes almost golden near the pupils, all the while adoring the feel of her hand on his cheek.

The thumping only gets worse when her fingers move to his mouth, tracing his lips, and he ignores the slight sting when she brushes the cut over his bottom lip, because she's staring at his mouth and God he has missed that look.

"Most of the time I'm awake, you know," she whispers then, her thumb still gently caressing his split lip, and she's so close he feels her breath on his face when she speaks. He almost asks her what she's talking about, but she brings her gaze up to his then, and he understands, even before she says it. "Whenever you kiss me. I'm awake."

She's talking about all these times he has watched her 'sleep', her face inches away from his, about how he would sometimes graze her lips with his. Her lips, her forehead, her hair, the back of her neck. Stolen kisses he has given her in the dark of night when he thought she was sound asleep. But she wasn't.

And that's okay.

"Fine," he says just as softly against her fingers, staring intently at her. "I'm busted." His own hand comes up to gently grab hers. "I miss kissing you." He turns her hand to press a kiss on her wrist, his lips lingering upon her pulsing point, and he feels how fast her heart beats, too. "I miss touching you," he whispers against her skin, and he is more than appreciative of the shiver that then runs under it, as she lets out a wobbly breath.

But he lets go of her hand, and it falls back between them. He doesn't want her to think that it is only about the physical, because it isn't. "I miss you," he admits then, swallowing back the painful lump in his throat, but it doesn't really work; it gets even worse when her hand comes up again, slipping her fingers inside his open shirt to rest her palm upon his pounding heart, and he sees a tear escape her eye, sliding along her nose.

He ignores his pain and shifts his position to roll slightly onto his side, his fingers almost flying to her face to wipe her tear away, and the tear that comes after that, her face once again constricted in pain.

"You almost died, today…" she whispers, and even quiet as it is, her voice still rings with fear and desperation, feelings that he completely mirrors.

" _You_ almost died today," he repeats her words just as softly, because it's the truth; and the truth is that he would put his life on the line a thousand more times to save hers, and he knows she sees it in his eyes, feels it in his touch.

And she tastes it on his lips, then, when she brings her face to his in a slow and soft agonizing kiss.

He loves the feel of her, and hates the salty tinge of her tears. But mostly, he just loves her, and everything else starts to fade away, as this gentle kiss is enough to ovecome all of his senses. It's been a while, and every inch of his body seems to be vibrating with relief and need, but she feels familiar and still _his_ despite it all, as if not a day has passed.

But more than one day has gone by, more than one heartbreak, too, and the need he feels is reciprocal; he feels it in the way she presses her body against his side, her hand eventually leaving his chest to go back to his face, burying her fingers in his hair, the kiss more eager now.

The world swirls deliciously behind his closed eyelids, and drifting away has never felt more entrancing. She keeps him grounded, though, the feel of her so real and _painful_ , figuratively and literally; her tongue seeks and finds his in a familiar and longing caress that sends heat through his veins and down south, and the heat becomes a blaze when she starts to move, pinning herself more firmly against his hip.

She brings her leg up, pressing upon the quickly hardening bulge in his boxers, and he doesn't seem to have any control left over his body, his hips reflexively grinding up against her, and the fervent move causes him to let out a moan that is as much pleasure as it is pain. When she realizes it, she stops moving and lets go of his mouth.

"I'm sorry," she whispers, looking mortified and breathless, but he shakes his head.

"Don't," he says, and his voice is hoarse, feeling quite overwhelmed and frustratingly feeble. "But I feel like I should make sure you know I meant it when said we could do this one step at a time."

She looks even more mortified after that statement, her whole body tensing; she hastily averts her eyes, instantly trying to move away. "I'm sorry," she repeats. "I should have known you wouldn't want…"

But he uses his fingers now entangled in her hair to keep her from moving too far, and aware of his physical state, she doesn't offer too much resistance. He knows what is going through her mind, even before her eyes meet his again, and he cannot let her think he would ever _not_ want her. He sees her pupils dilating even more under his feverish, longing gaze.

Ignoring his pain again, he rolls more fully onto his back, wrapping his other arm around her waist to bring her with him and let her feel just how badly he needs her right now. The layers of clothes still separating them don't seem to matter much, the sensations almost blinding, and she seems just as powerless as him when it comes to controlling her impulses, her hips rolling into his; it is her turn to let out a low moan as she drops her head, bringing their faces together, his lips on her forehead.

She's trying to keep most of her weight off him, supporting herself on her left arm, but the pain is irrelevant to the feel of her against him, of this warm scent of hers invading his lungs and brain again.

"God Olivia I want you," he almost chokes against her skin, and he doesn't really know who initiates the next meeting of their hips, both his hands now pressed upon her lower back, but the fact is that they move, and she moans again. He swallows back the similar sound growing in his throat, because he needs to finish explaining himself. "I don't care about the pain, it's just…I feel pretty useless right now."

The painkillers he has taken a few minutes ago combined with the strong rush of endorphins are already dimming all his different aches, but he still feels constantly at the verge of fainting, not to mention incredibly weak –especially now that most of his blood has concentrated in one spot.

There is absolutely nothing more maddening at this instant than being physically incapable of loving her the way he has been longing to love her for weeks, when she is finally letting her walls crumble. And yet, some part of him _knows_ that his complete helplessness might possibly be playing a big part in her desire to be close to him again. He doesn't think their near-death experience is the only explanation.

She has lost many things, that night of September, and feeling in control of her own body was one of them. He has been nothing but supportive and comforting ever since, as much as she has allowed him to be, and maybe that's the problem.

She has been out of control.

But he's the one being vulnerable tonight, physically at least; he has a feeling that they are equally shaken, not to say broken, emotionally speaking.

She raises her head, then, just enough so she can rest her forehead against his, and he feels the dampness of his skin against hers, even though they haven't really done anything, proving just how miserable he feels.

And yet, he hasn't felt that safe in weeks, lost into her eyes, her body upon his, her fingers in his hair.

"I've got you…" she murmurs then, before moving to brush her lips against his in another excruciatingly slow and tender kiss, and he feels like weeping, the way his heart already is. "I've got you…"

As the kiss becomes more urgent and her fingers and her skin are everything and everywhere, his mind remains oddly slower than his body, but it's actually a relief. He doesn't want to think, because thinking brings back the other kind of pain.

But it's impossible for him not to remember the last time they had been that close physically, when she's all he can feel and breathe. She had been pregnant -hugely pregnant, if you'd asked her.

Gorgeously pregnant, if you'd asked him.

True to herself, she hadn't been one to excessively complain about the downsides of pregnancy, though other men kept on telling him to ' _wait for it, the moods will come_ '. They hadn't come, except maybe for how she _had_ been heavily complaining about the fact that she was constantly assigned to desk work. In exchange for her remarkable behaviour, he had tried not to get 'overly cheesy', which had proven to be difficult, especially toward the end. Another thing people always seem to say about pregnant women is that they start to 'glow'; according to Olivia, it was nothing but crap.

To him, though, she had been the most beautiful, shiny human being in the world.

From the very first time he had caught her standing in front of a mirror in a very cliché stance, shirt pulled up, brow furrowed and lips pursed, trying to determine if there was a bump of any sort, he had known that when the bump would come, she would wear it beautifully. Protectively. Lovingly.

Because what had been hiding beneath her tense skin had been precious and small and entirely theirs, and there had been no questioning that a Protector like Olivia would love her child long before she even felt it move within her.

And she would keep on loving her long after she stopped moving.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This part is set somewhere between September 2014 and July 2015. I couldn't bring myself to decide upon the amount of time someone would need after experiencing that kind of pain.


	17. XVII.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part XVII and XVIII deal with child death, read at your own discretion.

**XVII.**

Peter stops at the nursery's door, slumping against the frame almost in defeat, his eyes roaming the room.

As he takes in the scene, his heart thumps painfully against his temples, and his legs are already getting weaker beneath him, the need to get the _hell_ out of here overpowering him again, despite the fact that he just came back in. He loathes himself that much more for having this impulse in the first place, but it's not by _choice_. He wants nothing more than to make it all go away, but he doesn't have the ability to change the past yet.

He just feels so powerless at that instant, feeling like he's just arrived to witness the odd stillness that follows a violent storm.

The floor is entirely covered with baby clothes, clothes he is sure were still neatly folded in the dresser's drawers only a few hours ago. And it's not just clothes. There are toys and stuffed animals, books and ornaments, everything is scattered on the ground. It's as if a tornado has swirled into the room and turned it all upside down. And this tornado is now sitting among the wreck, cross-legged, an enormous trash bag opened next to her.

She is folding the onesies back together, almost delicately, before putting them in the bag, one at a time. From where he stands, he can only see one of her profiles, and the only reason why he's able to see part of her face is because her blond hair on that side is tucked behind her ear, and it is one tangled, dirty mess of a hair; that tends to happen when showering becomes optional.

Her face is focused and almost disturbingly calm, and if not for her pallor and the dark circles under her eyes, she could have been fine, really. Except that her eyes are also bloodshot, and he sees the last of her tears still glistening on her cheeks; she's wearing one of his baggiest shirts, hiding herself and a body that still displays the traces of her pregnancy under the folds of a shapeless M.I.T. sweatshirt.

How could she be fine, when she has been left with an empty womb, and no child to love to fill the void?

It's been five days since the baby died, three days since the very intimate funeral, four hours since he has left the apartment, and not even twenty-five minutes since Broyles' phone call.

He has no doubt that what he is seeing right now is the aftermath of something that happened during this short half-hour; he knows what triggered it. It's nauseously easy for him to picture her emptying the drawers and the crib, and wiping off all of the shelves in a swirly haze of anger and desperation, before maybe collapsing on top of the mess.

Or maybe she went on a hunt, he thinks then as he watches her bring to her lips something that had been hiding on the other side of her. It had been months since he had last seen her drink anything stronger than grapefruit juice; he didn't even know they still had anything stronger around.

_("She might be giving me stretch marks, I can't deny the fact that I haven't been that healthy in a long time.")_

But it's definitely not grapefruit juice in her glass, and she downs almost all of the whiskey in one go. She then drops the glass at her side again, going back to her task.

She knows he's here, and he knows she knows. She's simply choosing not to acknowledge him. Maybe she's mad at him for leaving her a few hours ago to 'go to work' he had said, while she was curled up in bed, just like she had been for the most part of the last three days.

Or maybe it has nothing to do with him at all, and everything to do with their dead daughter.

God he needs to get out of here.

"Hey," he says softly instead after she has folded up and discarded six more items, Broyles words still ringing in his ears.

She barely glances at him, keeping her eyes on the white fluffy overalls she's folding. It's insane the amount of clothes they had gathered in a few months; what is even more insane is that they barely had to buy anything. As soon as people learn you're having a baby, fellow parents –sometimes strangers- just seem to rush to the trunk of your car with boxes full of clothes and toys they are happy to see disappear from their attics.

He remembers the sound of her laughter echoing in this very room when they had been going through the load, admiring the ugliness of some of the outfits.

"I thought you were working," she says then. She might be mad, after all, though her voice is just as emotionless as her face at that instant.

Peter can't really explain why he decided to go to work this morning. No, that's a lie. He very well knows why he left their place. He remembers feeling like he was suffocating, just lying there in their bed with nothing to do but think about the unthinkable, and Olivia who was just broken, unable to do anything but cry or sleep, or both at the same time; she had barely said a word in over two days. Going to work had felt like a necessity, because if he didn't _move_ , he would just choke on the thick silence of their room.

But as soon as he had stepped into the office, he had been attacked from all fronts. Not verbally or physically, no. It had been the _stares_. The looks of surprise and confusion, of pity, and the whispers that had come next.

' _What is he doing here?' 'Awful story, isn't it?' 'He should have stayed home.' 'Heard she was only a few weeks away from her due date, you know.'_

And the memories of other stares and other whispers had hit him then, pushing him deeper into the dark.

' _He's the one who did it.' 'He destroyed it all.' 'He saved our world, or did he?' 'All these people who died.'_

He doesn't remember exactly how he had ended up in the elevator again, with Astrid's arm wrapped around his, but he does remember the gentle squeeze of her fingers on his forearm in the hall, and her sad, understanding eyes.

" _Go home_ , _Peter,"_ she had said softly, and he had simply nodded, making his way out of the building, back to his car.

He hadn't gone home.

He had driven, still engulfed in this strange, confused state, not really knowing where he was going, until he had realized he had parked in front of the cemetery he and Olivia had been in less than three days ago. He had thought about her, then, about Elizabeth, about her delicate sleeping face and her soft hair, so pale it had looked almost transparent; but it had been there and _real_ and so had she been, so light and beautiful in his hands.

He had opened the door, ready to step out and go back to where she had been lowered into the ground. That's when he had heard his voice, so clearly that he could have been standing next to his car.

" _How despicable of you, Peter, to indulge yourself to dwell in self-pity over the death of your daughter when you killed your son without a second thought."_

He had never gotten out of the car, not past his upper body anyway, seeing how he had thrown up a good amount of bile on the ground.

He had decided here and then that she should remain nameless and faceless in his mind, if he didn't want to be driven into madness, and he had spent the next three hours just…breathing, in and out, in and out, in and out. He had also ignored several phone calls, like Astrid's, who had surely been trying to check on him, and Rachel's.

These past few days, he has learned that Rachel can be just as insistent as her sister. But it's really not his fault if Olivia still refuses to see anybody, even her own sister. When he had been the one accepting the silver cross that Rachel had brought back, he had wanted to tell her that she shouldn't take it the wrong way, that the reason why Olivia was hiding was most likely because she felt ashamed, felt like she had failed. Peter hadn't felt strong enough to explain it all to the people who couldn't understand.

Though he cannot lie, he often wishes Olivia would let someone _else_ in -a woman would be good, because he feels so utterly lost and inept when it comes to some of the aftereffects of what she's been through. Two days ago, she had called him from the bathroom, asking for her cell phone, and he had found her in tears, wrapped in a thick robe, waiting in the doorway. When he had asked what he could do to help her –he was ready to sell his soul at this point- she had said in a whisper:

" _I'm lactating. Unless you can find me a baby to feed I don't think you can help."_

She had grabbed the cell phone and closed the door. And he had just stood there for a while, forehead against the door, half-listening to the conversation she was having with her doctor. He had almost given in, then, ready to call Rachel and ask her to come over. But he hadn't, because Olivia wouldn't want him to. And so he had kept on ignoring most of Rachel's calls.

This morning in the car, he had ignored Nina Sharp's call as well, because he had known what she was calling about, and sure enough, the message she had left hadn't come as a surprise.

" _Hello Peter, Nina Sharp. I have left a similar message on Olivia's phone. I wanted to inform you that the results for the unknown chemical found in your daughter's brain came back, and it is positive for Cortexiphan. However, our scientists are quite certain that it didn't have anything to do with what happened. Do not worry about calling me back, I remain at-"_

His phone had biped then, indicating a new incoming call; it had been from Broyles this time. The only reason he had answered this one was because Broyles had stopped being their direct supervisor a while ago now, so him calling surely meant something bad. Maybe the end of the world.

It felt like it.

Broyles had gone straight to the point, his deep voice even graver than usual.

" _Peter, I've just talked to Olivia. She asked me to find a way to arrange a meeting between her and Walter."_

" _That's impossible,"_ he had answered, quite dumbly, though he had immediately understood why she wanted to talk to his incarcerated father.

" _I am well aware of that, and so is she, I am sure. When I reminded her of the situation, she was quite… adamant on the matter; I don't think I had heard swear before today."_

" _I'm…sorry."_

" _No apology needed, it was nothing I hadn't heard before, and only someone heartless would hold it against her right now. It is not why I called. When I asked her if I could speak with you, she said you were 'working'. Now listen close, Peter, what I'm about to say definitely goes beyond my comfort zone, so I will only say it once. I used to be married to a woman like Olivia, the kind of women who usually don't need help from anyone, the kind of women who let us, men, know that they would be just as fine without us."_

" _Sir-"_ he had tried to stop him, because this had definitely been uncomfortable, but Broyles had cut him off.

" _I'm not done. The truth is, as strong as these women can be, there are times when they do need us to be here. And failing them during these times of hardship can have devastating consequences. Do you hear what I'm saying, Peter?"_

" _Yes sir."_

" _Work doesn't need you right now."_ And his voice had actually softened as he said: _"Go home, where you're needed."_

And so he had gone home, ignoring the sinking feeling in his guts as he got closer and closer to their place, wondering when he would stop dreading being face to face with Olivia.

Now is not that time.

He chooses to ignore her remark, not wanting to tell her about how he hadn't really gone to work, but had decided to go puke in front of the cemetery in which their daughter was buried instead.

"I got a message from Nina," he says then. "And Broyles called me."

She stops her folding movements, already looking even more tense, and she reaches for her glass, drinking the last of it. He sees her eyes roam the room then, looking for the bottle. His own gaze finds it first, propped on one of the now empty shelves. He grabs it and slips it in the back of his pants, because he really doesn't think she should be mixing all the drugs she's taking with whiskey. When he turns back to her, she's offering him a deathly glare from where she's still sitting.

But she looks too broken to be remotely scary.

"Broyles said you wanted to see Walter," he says softly.

She averts her eyes, putting away the pajamas she had between her legs, before getting up. He doesn't miss her grimace of pain as she does so, but he doesn't say anything. He has learned not to ask.

"I do," she answers tersely, her back to him now, as she starts picking up toys. Each of them ends up in the trash bag as well, and he really wishes she would stop doing that.

"You know you can't see him," he continues. "We're not even allowed to write him."

"Exceptions can be made," she replies, and he can see her growing agitation as she keeps on bending down to clean up the mess she's made, throwing everything away, all the while trying to keep her cold mask on; but he sees it cracking with every move she makes, her pain as physical as it is emotional.

"We've discussed this," he reminds her gently. "You know we might only get one shot at talking to him."

She stops dead in her tracks then and faces him, looking ready to lash out at him. "Well I think the situation is adequate, Peter," she almost spits, her voice quivering with emotions, and God she looks like a wreck in her sweatpants and his baggy shirt, her hair in worse shape than he has ever seen it.

But nothing is worst than her eyes, because he just sees it all, over and over and over again. And she knows it, and she feels it; she has to look away again, her face constricting, looking down at the stuffed bunny she's holding. She just drops it in the bag, before bringing her trembling fingers to her mouth.

"Olivia…" he says almost in a whisper, taking a step closer to her as if drawn to her, his need to comfort her greater than his need to run.

She drops her hand and raises her head, eyes full of newly formed tears. He wonders if those will ever stop, too. No matter how many times she wipes them away, they keep on coming.

"You heard Nina's message," she whispers, and then she bites down her lip, shaking her head, and the tears roll down. "She had…cortexiphan in her brain, Peter."

He takes another step, fighting against the lump in his own throat. He's pretty sure it is his heart, and that it has taken permanent residency somewhere in his esophagus.

"We _knew_ it would be cortexiphan," he tells her softly as she mechanically wipes her cheeks off.

Of course they had known. Olivia had shared more than a physical bond with their child growing within her, and she had become aware of it long before she had started to even really show. She used to say that she could _feel_ her; she used to say she put colors in her mind.

 _("I can't feel her. Peter, I don't_ feel _her anymore.")_

"It wasn't the cortexiphan," he insists gently. "It was pre-eclampsia. The tests proved it."

He still can't bring himself to think the word 'autopsy'.

But Olivia shakes her head firmly, green eyes lost in the distance, and she's starting to get that crazed look again, a look he has already seen too many times in the past few days, but never quite as strongly.

"But something's off, they said something was off, they couldn't really explain why it hasn't affected me more severely. Something was just _wrong_ Peter and I know it came from me, it has to be me, I've been used as a lab rat so many times, who knows what it has done to my body."

She's completely out of it now, eyes wide and glazed, her whole body shaking as she hardly stops to breathe. "If it's not the cortexiphan trials then it could be the experiments they did to me Over There, they injected so many things into me, or maybe none of us from the trials were supposed to survive long enough to be having children, we were just supposed to serve our purpose and die."

He cups her face in both his hands then, choosing to ignore the personal space she seemed to have been needing desperately these past few days, because he cannot let her go on without intervening.

"Livia…" he calls her softly, calling her back to him.

The contact of his palms and fingers on her cheeks combined with this nickname he rarely uses anymore seems to work. Her eyes focus on his, her raised hands dropping to rest on his chest, clinging to the fabric of his shirt, and her body almost seems to slump, as if all of her wild energy, born from raw emotions and raving hormones, has just vacated her. All that is left is the sheer despair on her face, new silent tears sliding down along his fingers.

"I need to know, Peter," she whispers, sounding just as desperate as she looks. "I need to know if something in me harmed her."

It takes all his willpower for him to remain as composed as possible, because as Broyles said, she needs him to be the strong one this time, no matter how much he's hurting too, or how much he still wants to run away from the pain, most of the time.

But she looks so small and vulnerable in his hands, he knows he could never run away from her.

"I understand _why_ you need to know," he tells her softly. "And yes, I am sure Walter would be able to find some sort of explanation. But even if it did happen because of something that was done to you, it is still _not_ your fault. Don't do this. Don't blame yourself."

 _Blame_ _me_ , he wants to say.

"You would never have done anything to hurt her," he whispers instead, and he wishes he could believe his own words, in his case.

After a few moments, she nods shortly in his hands, eyes closed, and then he feels her hands let go of his shirt, feels her slip away. She reopens her eyes, not looking at him, and takes a step back. "You're right," she says, nodding again, using her sleeve to dab her face. "You're right."

But he knows these are shallow words.

She bends down again then, picking up books this time. They end up in the trash bag too, and he feels both dizzy and nauseated, already missing the feel of her.

"Olivia, you don't have to do that," he says softly.

She looks like a caged animal again, a nervous wreck going round and round the room.

"I can't leave it like that, I need to clean." She says, still not looking at him.

"You don't have to throw everything away," he clarifies, and she stops again to look at him, straightening up and throwing ' _Ten Little Fingers and Ten Little Toes'_ in the bag.

"Yes, I do." She says, and her voice is thick with emotions. "I'm not…I won't become one of these mothers who transform their child's room into some kind of shrine." Her whole face slowly crumbles, then, as her eyes roam the room. "We never even brought her home." She whispers, meeting his eyes again, and he wishes it would just stop.

The constant stabbing of his heart.

"We could…" he clears his throat. "We could still keep everything."

Despair morphs into confusion then, as she wipes her nose, ignorant of the new wet trails on her face. "For what?"

When he doesn't answer and merely looks very uncomfortable all of the sudden, she seems to understand, and confusion changes into revulsion.

"What are you suggesting, Peter?" She sounds beyond offended. "'Let's just wait six months and what, give it another try?'"

He shakes his head repeatedly, briefly closing his eyes. "God, no, Olivia, that's not what I meant." There he goes again, making things worse because he's unable to express himself without rambling stupid things first. "What I mean is…we don't know what the future holds."

But it is her turn to shake her head energetically, and she crosses her arms in front of her chest in a defensive stance, rocking softly on the spot, her eyes widening again. "No, Peter. No. There won't be another time, whatever the future might hold."

And he just feels miserable for causing her that kind of distress on top of everything else, because God knows he didn't mean to. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to sound insensitive. I know you're grieving and-"

She lets out a shockingly loud chuckle then, but it sounds more like some sort of strangled wounded noise, and she briefly brings a hand to her mouth, shaking her head again, staring at him as if she can't believe they're having this conversation.

She drops her hand, wrapping her arm around herself again. "Do you think this is just me being _irrational_ because I'm grieving and my hormones are all over the place?"

"Olivia…" But he is at a loss for words. He feels like he's back on that hard chair in Barret's garden, listening to her as she pours her hurt and heart out, her eyes piercing holes into his soul.

"You think I didn't think about the future before this?" She has unfolded her arms, her hand swooping the air, including themselves and the entire room into 'this'. "Peter, I spent eight months wondering what the hell we were doing." She shakes her head slightly. "Not a day went by without me wondering what kind of life she would be doomed to have here, and I was _terrified_. Every time I…" She closes her eyes, her face distorted in pain, and she snuffles loudly, trying so hard not to break down. "Every time I felt her move, I would imagine all the atrocities that could happen to her, because we've seen them all, Peter. We both know where this world is heading." She raises her head and opens her eyes, meeting his. "She would never have been safe."

He swallows hard, almost convulsively, trying to speak, but his throat seems to have closed up completely, and his eyes just burn and prickle agonizingly. Eventually, he manages to get the words out, staring at her, and his voice is so raw it doesn't even sound like his. "She would have been safe with us."

As they stare at each other, the look in her eyes and on her face changes, and he realizes that she is suddenly looking past her pain, just enough for her to see his and acknowledge the depth of his heartbreak.

And for a fleeting second there, he knows that somewhere down the road, they will be fine.

She slowly takes the few steps that separate her from him, and it is her turn to gently cup his cheeks, managing the most painful smile of all.

"Of course she would have been…" she whispers, her thumbs brushing his skin, and he closes his eyes, leaning into her hand, wanting nothing more than to simply dissolve into her touch. "But it obviously wasn't enough..."

When he opens his eyes again, she has moved her focus away from his face. Following her gaze, he sees that she's looking at the picture frame he had hung on the wall only a few weeks ago; it still has the fake family photo in it, and they are all smiling obnoxiously happily down at them.

"I won't be selfish again," Olivia says then, letting go of his face and moving away to walk to the wall. "I wanted this family with you, I really did…but I won't condemn another innocent child to this world."

She takes the frame away from the wall and turns around to face him, and she looks so worn out. "Our world is dying, Peter," she whispers, and her face constricts once more, fat, sorrowful tears falling onto the picture of that happy family they will never be. "Everything dies…even dreams."

And on those words, she throws the frame into the bag, among the broken pieces of what only days ago had been their most beautiful dream of all.

_(September 2014)_


	18. XVIII.

**XVIII.**

When Death comes that night, it comes quietly.

In retrospect, it isn't surprising. If Peter had to choose one word to describe that night, it wouldn't be 'unfathomable', or 'unreal', or 'so-painful-you-just-want-to-curl-up-on-the-ground-and-die', even though all of these terms apply, too.

He would describe that night as _quiet_.

Because silence has a sound, too. It's tangible and unbearable, and it makes everything oh so real, even when you just want it all to be nothing but a nightmare.

He is used to tragedies happening with a bang, with a rush of panic and sounds, with sirens and emergency squads. It's always hard, but at least he is prepared for it.

Peter is not prepared for this.

You're never prepared for Death, when it comes so quietly you don't even know it was there until it's gone. Until _she's_ gone.

You're never prepared for Death to come and rip your heart apart.

It comes anyway.

…

Up until this point in time, Peter doesn't know what has been the most terrifying part of the night so far, slipping into bed only to feel the mattress soaked under his palm, or trying to rouse Olivia from 'sleep' and getting no reaction.

Again, in retrospect, these events actually were the easiest things to go through, though he remains blissfully ignorant at the moment.

Evidently, he thinks it's blood at first. It isn't. He almost sends the lamp flying when he frenetically reaches for it and turns it on, before pulling the covers away from her. The liquid is clear, and the smell is sweet and almost earthy; he has read enough pregnancy books by then to know what it is, and his mind is already reeling in slight panic. Sure, water breaking at thirty-five weeks is a bit early, but it happens, it _happens_ , and they knew it could happen, and if she does go into labor today, the baby would be fine.

When he gently grabs her shoulder, though, her skin feels clammy and cool, and she doesn't react to his small shake.

"Olivia."

But he gets no reaction.

Less than three minutes later, an ambulance is on its way, as he tries _not_ to really panic now, tries to remember something useful from all those books he's read, but it seems like his brain is already shutting down. It doesn't matter how many information you have stored in your head, it doesn't change anything that you have an I.Q. of 190.

In moments like these, when your heart takes control over your mind, you're just as freaked out as anyone else. The most he ends up doing is feel her pulse, which is definitely there, strong and regular, though abnormally slow.

He rides with her to the hospital of course, while the EMTs hook her up to an impressive amount of machines in the back of the ambulance, talking fast and hurriedly, and he tries his best to answer their questions, and tries even harder to understand what they are saying to each other or in their radio. He definitely hears them say that ' _they'_ should get ready to do an emergency C-section, a surgery she would never get because it was already too late, but he somehow misses the moment when they worry about the lack of fetal heartbeat; it's easier not to hear that part.

Everything is blurry, and he ends up standing shakily in a waiting room, still trying to make sense of everything that has just happened in the last twenty minutes. All he knows is that it feels surreal. They'd had the most _normal_ evening.

Olivia had gone to bed early –as in 8:30pm kind of early- which hadn't been unusual at all; her sleep pattern was more disrupted than ever these days, and she had finally accepted the fact that if she wanted to get at least two or three hours of sleep in a row, she should let herself sleep whenever she got drowsy. She had gotten drowsy on his shoulder tonight, as they were watching some mindless show on TV, and he had gently touched her cheek to keep her from completely falling asleep, advising her to go to bed. She had grumbled sleepily but had gotten off the couch, in this slightly wobbly way he found terribly endearing, and when he had told her teasingly that he could try and carry her to bed, she had said without even turning back:

" _Laugh all you want, Bishop, but you should get some sleep too. In a few weeks, you'll be the one getting up at night."_

As he waits and waits for an excruciatingly long time –which turns out to be less than half an hour- he promises himself he will willingly and happily take all the night feedings for a year or two as long as both his girls are okay.

But they're not. Something is very wrong. That much he can tell as soon as a doctor approaches him.

There is this _quietness_ about him. He's looking grave and almost tired; he's looking like someone who's about to deliver bad news. Peter dismisses it, because everything will be alright. It has to be.

"How's Olivia?" he immediately asks.

"Olivia is doing fine," the doctor says, and he's so overwhelmed with relief that he barely registers what he says about her blood pressure, because his relief is short-lived and he has to ask the second most important question.

"How's the baby?"

And there it is; the pause. The silence. The quiet, almost apologetic second before the pain, and Peter _knows_ even before the doctor says the words.

"I'm very sorry, the baby died."

…

Breathing is hard. Focusing on anything is painful.

His denial is thick and powerful, but not thick enough for the reality of what is happening to remain afar. He's sitting near Olivia's bed –or rather slumped in a chair, bent forward, elbows on his knees, alternating moving his hands from his hair to his mouth, occasionally pressing their heels to his eyes. His mind is blank and yet incredibly acute, and he feels both numb and torn apart.

He wants to ignore the fact that nothing can be done, that their daughter is just _gone_ , but even closing his eyes so he doesn't have to see her bump under the covers is not enough. The simple fact that there is only one heart monitor sound in the room tells the intolerable truth. He finds himself longing for that fast, drumming sound they had heard only a few days ago during her last appointment. It had been a healthy sound, a sound full of life and promise.

But all that is left is silence.

Except for Olivia's heartbeat, which remains slower than usual.

The doctors don't have an explanation for her 'slumber'. Physically, she's 'fine', they say. They got her blood pressure under control, and nothing explains why she's not simply waking up, because this is 'inconsistent with coma', whatever the hell that means, maybe they explained it, but the words didn't reach him in his foggy state of mind. He doesn't need their explanation, because he knows.

He could try and explain to them why she's sleeping, but they wouldn't understand. Because he knows that maybe, she's simply gone, too. Maybe, just _maybe_ , her mind has gone with their daughter's when she felt her slip away. It would be just like her. Even unconsciously, she won't give her up without a fight.

Because this is definitely not sleep.

He has seen her in that state way too many times, has heard that slow heartbeat way too often, though she's usually immersed into water, metal rods piercing the back of her skull.

This is trance.

And he knows how to bring her back, if she decides to come back at all. She hasn't won that fight, that much is obvious, and he wonders if she will want to wake up to this reality. The minutes go by, and he just sits there, feeling like acid is slowly dissolving his insides, and he simply wants to leave, to leave and not think, and not feel. He knows how to bring her back, but he doesn't want to bring her back. Not to _this_.

He can't let her sleep either, though, no matter how much he wants to shield her from the truth, how much he doesn't want to deal with _this_.

She can't be gone, too.

He needs her to come back to him. He needs her.

And so, with the most intense dread in his heart, one of his hands reaches out for hers, sliding his fingers under her palm, enclosing hers gently, yet decidedly. With a growing lump in his throat, he brings their joined hands to his mouth, pressing her knuckles to his lips, silently begging her to come back.

When he closes his eyes, he instantly feels this almost familiar sensation pass through him, as if invisible tendrils were forming between them, strengthening this unique bond they seem to have shared for as long as he can remember. As his breathing deepens and his own heart slows down, a beautiful picture start to form in his mind, or maybe it comes from hers; it doesn't really matter.

The petals are nacre white, and feel as soft as satin. He focuses all of his thoughts on it, overwhelmed by a feeling of deep melancholy, which soon morphs into desolation when a single drop falls onto the flower; it traces a scarlet trail as it slides down, quickly spreading within the petal's skin, white turning red.

Olivia's fingers quiver against his lips, and Peter opens his eyes. Their gazes instantly meet.

She doesn't look completely aware at first, her eyes hazy and unfocused, as if her mind is neither here nor there.

It doesn't last long enough.

Quickly, way too quickly, he can literally feel her mind clearing as her fingers clench his, her eyes widening, staring at him in a way that makes him feel like she's looking right through him, another reaction he knows too well. He can almost see the Glimmer reflecting in her still widening eyes, and as her face constricts in what is the most unbearable pleading look he has ever seen, he understands that she _knows_. And in that strange, floating second, he finds himself having the most selfish thought of all.

_I don't have to tell her_

The stillness of the moment is gone in a second when she abruptly moves, her fingers leaving his as she brings both her hands to her stomach; the movement is so harsh that her IV pole shakes on the other side of the bed, and there is nothing slow about her heartbeat now; it's increasing with every passing second, her breathing loud and panicked.

"Peter," she breathes out, looking more distraught than he has ever seen her. "I can't feel her." Silent tears start rolling down her cheeks, and it's atrocious to know that they are only the first of many, many more to come. "Peter, I don't _feel_ her anymore."

She's panting in terror, _pleading_ him with her eyes to tell her that she's wrong, so wrong, that her baby is fine, but that is one lie he cannot tell. He feels his own face crumbling, and her heartbeat peaks.

"Olivia…" is all he manages to utter, and she shakes her head vigorously, hands still clenched on her stomach.

" _Please_ ," she whispers, and he has to close his eyes, only to reopen them a second later when people rush into the room, nurses already busy around Olivia, trying to calm her down.

She doesn't listen to them; she's frantic, pushing them away as they attempt to get her to lie back down, and he sees one of them finally inject something into her IV. Maggie Stewarts, her doctor, enters the room, then, unnoticed by Olivia, who's falling back against her pillow, her heartbeat finally slowing down; whatever they have given her, it's not enough to knock her out. He watches as she takes gulps of air, blinking at the ceiling, causing new tears to slide down as she hugs herself.

Her doctor barely offers him a look that he guesses is supposed to be sympathetic, before silently gesturing the nurses to leave the room. Peter is tempted to follow them, but he turns his gaze back to Olivia instead. Her eyes are on Dr Stewarts now, her breathing still too loud, and she's now silently pleading the other woman, someone she has entrusted with her baby's health months ago, to tell her that everything is fine. But she offers her no comfort, quietly sitting in the chair opposite Peter's. And he sees the same look in the doctor's eyes that was given to him a short while ago. His desire to flee the room increases, because he does not want to be here.

"Olivia," she says softly. "I'm sorry they had to give you this, but your vitals were worrisome." She pauses. "Do you remember what happened?"

Olivia shakes her head, trying to wipe her face with a weak, trembling hand. "I…I went to bed," she whispers.

Dr Stewarts nods slowly. "At some point between that time and when Peter came into the room, your water broke. He was not able to wake you up, that's why you were brought here." And there comes the Pause. "The EMTs who brought you here were unable to find a fetal heartbeat, nothing could be done. I'm so sorry, your baby died."

As Peter watches Olivia react the way any mother would react upon hearing that her child has died, _breaking_ , he can't help but wonder with some sort of horrified shock how worse it would be if she hadn't been drugged minutes ago. Somehow, he's glad she was, because the diverse physical reactions to her heartbreak are already unbearable, her entire being shaking with pain and silent sobs. Numbness has taken over him again, because not feeling anything is better than yielding to this, but he knows he should do something.

What can he do?

He wants to hold her hand, maybe, but one of them is still firmly resting upon her stomach, almost in a shielding gesture, while the other is up to her face, yet not really touching it as she just rocks herself, shaking her head. He eventually has to avert his eyes, because it feels almost indecent to be staring at her in a moment of such sorrow and vulnerability.

Also, he might simply crumble right here himself if he looks any longer.

"What happened?"

He is startled by the sound of her voice an endless moment later, barely louder than a whisper, barely audible through her tears. He looks back up at her, but her eyes are on Dr Stewarts.

Her doctor's face hasn't changed much, and he wonders coldly how many years of bad news it takes to witness that kind of misery and not even look remotely upset. Up until tonight, he had always liked her, as much as you can really like a doctor, that is, especially when your childhood used to be full of them. She had been professional and informative, honest about pregnancy facts and expectations, exactly the kind of doctor Olivia liked. But right now, Peter wishes they had gone with a doctor who could offer some kind of _compassion_ in a moment like this.

"We can't be sure yet, nothing is evident enough to explain it. It could just be an accident; it's sad to say, but it happens more often than one thinks." Peter might have slapped her right there for saying those words in such a matter-of-fact voice if she hadn't kept going. "But your irregular blood-pressure when you came in also makes us think of pre-eclampsia, though it seems improbable. You would either be in worse shape than you are right now, or you would have shown symptoms before, and I doubt it wouldn't have shown during any of your exams."

Peter's anger increases. This is all he needs, someone to blame, and right now, Dr Stewarts is giving him too many reasons to be angry. But his eyes are back on Olivia then, who is still crying with the most heartbreaking look on her face, and anger and desperation aren't so different from each other.

"I don't understand…" Olivia shakes her head, hugging herself tightly. "Everything was perfectly fine ten days ago at our last appointment. She was still moving when I-"

But she has to stop, seeming to break down all over again, eyes closed, rocking slightly.

"I know it's hard, Olivia, and I promise you'll get answer once the baby is born," Dr Stewards says then, which causes Olivia to reopen her eyes, now looking almost confused. The doctor continues: "Now normally in this situation, when there is no underlying risk for the mother, we give the parents a choice; they can decide when they want labor to be induced. I'm afraid that we cannot wait long in your case. Your water broke, which means that you could naturally go into labor, but this being your first child and under current circumstances, it could take up to a few days. That's why we would rather induce you tonight, to avoid any risk of infection."

Olivia has closed her eyes again, now looking defeated. "I have to give birth tonight…" she whispers. "Naturally."

It's not a question, more like she's saying the words out loud to make sure she's not making them up. Peter isn't surprised by the news. When he had himself asked the first doctor he had talked to why they wouldn't do the C-section, why they wouldn't try and get the baby out, try _something_ for Christ's Sake!, he had been told that it would be an 'unnecessary risk for the mother', especially since 'nothing could be done'.

"We'll induce you tonight," confirms Dr Stewarts, "but there's no saying when you will give birth. Even with the induction, labor can take 12 to 24 hours to start, and it can then take just as long to go through the whole process. In other cases, everything happens within hours. It really depends on how your body will react to the drugs."

Peter thinks she has completely missed the point in what Olivia has said, and his loathing for her increases. But he remains quiet, powerless, unable to do anything but stare at Olivia as she simply sits there, arms around herself, crushed, tears slipping out from under her closed eyelids.

"It should go fast, then…" she murmurs.

For better or for worse, she's right about that.

…

_Plic…Plic…Plic…_

The water drips from his face, as he just stands there over the sink, grabbing both sides with shaky hands.

The dizziness is mostly gone, but he still feels more wretched than he has in...well, he wishes he could say 'years', but his life is so fucked up that it hadn't been that long since he had felt so bad it had physically affected him. It simply seems to hurt more now because of the few 'tragedy-free' months they had just lived. He had honestly thought the worst was behind them.

Destroying universes, killing people ( _your own son)_ , his dad imprisoned for life…he had felt miserable alright.

And then he hadn't.

They hadn't planned on getting pregnant, that much is true, but she had _never_ been a mistake. She had been wanted as soon as her existence had been known. And yet, they hadn't gotten overly excited.

After all, they were not what you would call the most optimistic people; Peter was too cynical and Olivia too down to earth and almost blasé at times to just run 'head first' into this without some caution. They were told that they should wait until Olivia went past the twelve weeks mark to 'start to prepare and plan'. They lived in a crazy world, leading an insane life, so they had listened and hadn't gotten too excited. But soon, she had been thirteen weeks pregnant and everything had been going well. Before they knew it, she was over twenty-two weeks pregnant, with that fascinating bump and the indescribable look on her face whenever she felt her move.

No, they hadn't been excited, not exactly. Weeks had gone by, one by one, and she had been growing steadily, healthily, and with a blink of an eye, there had been less than ten weeks to go. And it had felt good, to feel almost normal, to feel utterly unprepared and terrified about oncoming parenthood, and yet to be so ready, ready to meet her.

To meet his little girl, to hold her in his arms and promise her to keep her safe, murmuring into her ear what he had been whispering against Olivia's tense skin for months now, like he had done only yesterday night.

And now, she is just _gone_ , and his anger throbs as deeply as his grief, and he doesn't even know why he is mad, or whom he is mad at.

He hates the doctors for being useless, he hates himself for not going to bed with Olivia earlier because maybe, just maybe, he could have done something, and he's mad at _her_ too, for leaving them a month before she was supposed to be born, for letting him down like that, for putting them through so much pain, and God Olivia's face how could she just go that way?

That is the kind of thinking that had led him to leave the room to go throw up in the men's bathroom down the hall. He had thought he could allow himself that small moment of weakness –and it had been this or throwing up beside Olivia's bed.

But now that his stomach is completely empty and that he has splashed some cold water on his face to try and get a grip of himself, he is crushed by the realization that he has just _left_ Olivia when she needs him the most. What is most terrifying is that he's wondering if he's going to have the guts to go back in the room. He had escaped after a nurse had come in and softly informed Olivia that she was going to examine her so they could 'prep her'. It had seemed like the perfect opportunity, because not every man liked to stay in the room when their girlfriends were being 'examined'.

Except that he now remembers feeling Olivia's eyes on him as he left, for the first time since the doctor had confirmed her greatest fear, and it's too easy for him to imagine what she might be thinking, left alone to be probed by a stranger so that they can 'prep her' to deliver their dead child.

With only a glimpse at his own reflection –quite a frightening sight, Peter escapes the bathroom, feeling almost worse than when he first entered it, stumbling a little, and he almost collides with a nurse coming down the hall. He recognizes her as the one who had been with Olivia, and he sees immediate recognition in her eyes too. She has kind eyes.

"Feeling better?" she asks softly.

He thinks about nodding, but he ends up just shaking his head, feeling like he owes this stranger honesty after she has witnessed him flee the room. "I'm…sorry, about…" he tries, because he also feels like he needs to explain himself.

She does something that completely throws him off then; she briefly brings her hand to his face, gently patting his cheek twice before dropping her hand to his shoulder. "Nonsense, young man, don't apologize to me. Most people don't realize how hard this is for the dads, too." He honestly doesn't know how to react to such genuine kindness and understanding.

Mostly, he just feels like breaking down.

"How is she?" He whispers instead, knowing what kind of answer he's going to get.

The nurse –he will realize later that he never learned her name- squeezes his shoulder. "She needs you to go back in," she says simply, but again without any trace of accusation, and he closes his eyes, shaking his head in shame. "Hey, don't worry, I told her you would be back, that you obviously were one of these men who are too proud to display weakness in front of other people."

He feels like telling her that most of the time, it's actually the other way around; they are both too proud for their own good at times, but of the two of them, Olivia is the one who clearly hates showing her vulnerability.

Tonight is hell, in every possible way.

When he doesn't say anything and just stands there, eyes closed and feeling so selfishly tired, she gives him another squeeze. "Is there anybody you can call? Family, friends? Sometimes it helps to know that someone else is here."

He opens his eyes and shakes his head tiredly. "No. No family," he says a little too hoarsely, before adding. "She does have a sister in Chicago, but she wouldn't want her to…to see her like this."

"What about you?" The nurse asks softly.

He just shakes his head again, swallowing hard. "She's all I've got." The last word definitely sounds too squeaky and he sounds nothing short of desperate.

"She's going to be fine," she tells him then, reassuringly. "There is no word to express the pain of what she is going through, but you obviously love her. If you take care of her, she will be fine."

_Take care of the people you care about_

Less than a minute later, he's back into the room. He's still a bit shaky, and definitely overwhelmed, but he has just been reminded of what he is supposed to do, because that's what he's good at.

He will take care of her.

And so he walks back to her bed, on which she now lies curled up on her side –as much as she can lie on her side in her state. Both her arms are under the blanket, and he knows she's still hugging herself; it's as if she's decided on holding on to her child as long as humanly possible. Her eyes are closed, and her face still displays that intense, unbearable sorrow.

Without a word, he puts a soft hand on her forehead, before bending down to press a kiss on her skin. When he sits back down in his chair, she has opened her eyes, and their gazes meet at last. No word is adequate, no word is strong enough. So they don't say anything at all.

They simply stare at each other and speak quietly.

 _Stay with me,_ her pleading, anguished eyes ask him.

 _I'm not going anywhere_ , he promises without a word.

…

Olivia doesn't speak a lot, that night. She's just as quiet as the rest of the world. But when she does, she always breaks his heart.

"No epidural," she says to the nurse with a small shake of her head, and her voice is throaty, as if she had been screaming her lungs out, when she has barely spoken at all.

The nurse –the kind one who definitely is a blessing tonight- doesn't look at her the way he knows her doctor would, with a bit of annoyance. She offers her a grave yet sympathetic look instead. Peter is just too shocked –yet again- to even try to intervene. They had talked about delivery options, of course, had been as far as researching methods like water birth, and she had quickly said she wouldn't do an epidural. She had said she'd had enough drugs poured into her body for a lifetime, and that she would do fine without this one.

Admittedly, her reason for not wanting the epidural in the first place is still valid, but he knows her motives have changed.

This is not about it being a drug. This is about it being a drug that would numb the pain of childbirth, and she wouldn't allow herself that kind of relief.

"Are you sure?" the nurse asks. "Labor pains are extremely painful."

Olivia just shakes her head, not even looking at her, eyes hazy and almost empty. "I'm fine," she says, and her voice is hollow too.

The nurse sighs, and then, to Peter's surprise, she sits on Olivia's bed. Obviously, surprise is the reaction she was trying to get, because Olivia turns her head and meets her gaze.

"Look," the nurse says gravely, yet with the same kindness she had spoken to Peter with. "I'm not going to pretend I know what you are going through, or that I understand why you don't want the epidural. What I can tell you, though, is that I unfortunately had the occasion to see more than one woman go through what you're going through right now. The drug won't make it easier for you, because nothing can make this easier. But the pain will only make it harder. Do you understand?"

Olivia's face crumbles yet again, eyes full of tears, and she brings a trembling hand to her face, wiping her nose the way she always does when she tries to keep herself together. But it doesn't really work when you're already broken.

"I'm fine…" she repeats in a murmur then, averting her eyes, hand falling back on her stomach as more quiet tears roll down her cheeks. "I don't want the drugs. Just induce me."

And so that's what they do, reminding them that it can take quite a while for labor to start.

But barely an hour has passed when the contractions come. And when they come, they come _hard_.

The first one is enough for him to want and beg her to reconsider taking the epidural; he can't stand seeing her in pain, and the nurse was right, it just makes it a thousand times worse.

But he doesn't say anything, because he's not the one supposed to complain here.

Olivia doesn't complain; she barely makes a noise, if not for these loud and somewhat controlled intakes of breath she takes whenever the pain hits her. He remembers seeing depiction of women screaming and swearing exceedingly, and though she remains mostly quiet, he can tell that all the things he has ever heard about labor pain are true. Her body literally _shakes_ with every contraction, and all she can do is close her eyes, hands clenched over a stomach, almost curling into herself as the pain rolls through her. She's then left breathless and weak, hiding her face into her pillow as if to hide her newest tears.

The nurse comes back in regularly to check on her, and unlike Peter, she doesn't hesitate and offers the epidural again after one particularly intense contraction that has Olivia gripping the bed's rail in mere agony, bent over in half and barely able to breathe through this one. But when it's over, she just stubbornly shakes her head, eyes still tightly closed, pulling at her gown as if she still had difficulty breathing.

With every new wave of pain, she looks like she's suffocating a little more into her skin, her face flushed, skin glistening with a thin layer of sweat, something both Peter and the nurse notice.

After the nurse is done 'checking', she announces that things are progressing fast. "You can try and walk around, if you want," she tells Olivia.

At first, it's another advice she ignores. But thirty minutes and five excruciating waves of pain later, she's pulling at her gown again, eyes closed in exhaustion as she tries to catch her breath.

"I need to move…" she whispers, and he barely has time to stand up from his chair that she has already thrown her legs over the other side of the bed. He has joined her in a second of course, but when he tries and helps her up, she pushes his hands away. "Don't…" and she manages to slide off the bed, clinging to her IV pole. After finding her balance on weakened legs, she heads for the door.

He follows closely, close enough that if she stumbled or anything, he would be able to keep her from falling. Not that she's going to go far, that's much is clear. They are barely out of her room and into the hall when she abruptly stops, her entire body tensing in a way that is already sickeningly familiar. He sees her knuckles turning white around the IV pole as her body starts to fold in half, and there is no way she's going to stay on her feet through this.

He doesn't wait for her consent and goes around her to stand in front of her as she tries to breathe through the growing pain. She instinctively reaches out for him, letting go of the pole so both her hands grab his sides, fingers digging hard into his ribs as her head falls against his chest.

"Peter…" she moans against him, and his fingers curl into her hair, protectively, his other arm sliding around her to keep her steady as she sways through the pain.

"I've got you…" he whispers into her hair, and he feels her grip on him tightening even more. "I've got you…"

The pain seems to last forever, and for the first time since the contractions have started, she seems to allow herself the right to display her agony, a low, painful hum resonating through him, and all he can do is keep her close.

She eventually relaxes in his embrace, her entire being slumping against him, but he knows she's crying against his shirt.

"Olivia, please…" he doesn't even try to hide his own desperation as he whispers against the top of her head. "Take the epidural. You don't have to be in so much pain."

Her body shakes with what he knows is another silent sob, but she quickly shakes her head against him, before straightening up. She doesn't look at him, automatically trying to wipe her face –unsuccessfully, before letting go of him all together. Without a word, she grabs her IV pole again and walks around him, before starting down the hall, her other hand under her round stomach, wobbling away.

When the next contractions come, though, she clings to him every single time, and cries some more against his shirt.

At some point, he just starts crying with her, his tears as quiet as hers; none of them even notices.

…

Part of him still expects to wake up at any moment, now, firmly believing that this is all a nightmare. But it is too real to be a nightmare. By the time she's ready to push, he's ready to collapse on the floor.

He has lost all notion of time, his whole world now limited and divided between the moments when she's in pain, and the moments when she's not. The latter are getting rarer and harder to discern, because even when she's not in the middle of a contraction, she's in pain.

But the time comes when she's fully dilated and positioned to push the baby out, and Peter has taken position too, standing next to her as she squishes his fingers. He almost feels like a normal father for a moment there, finding himself echoing the doctor's instructions to Olivia to 'bear down', though his voice sounds very foreign. He cannot focus on what is happening down there, keeping his eyes on her.

Again, when some women might have been screaming and sobbing in pain by now, she isn't, despite the fact that she would have every reason to behave that way. But she goes through this like she has always gone through every painful situation she has ever been in: with every last bit of determination she's got in her.

There's no hiding the despair on her face, though, and her flushed face is glistening with an equal amount of tears and sweat. She listens to her doctor and her nurse and follows their instructions without a single word or complaint. And then her doctor says after a particularly long push:

"Alright, Olivia, you're almost there. I need you to give me two more big pushes when the next contraction comes and she'll be out."

Olivia falls back against her pillow. "Oh God…" she breathes out, before shaking her head almost drowsily. "I can't…"

"You're doing great, it's almost over," her doctor continues, and Peter wishes she would just shut up, because Olivia's face contracts even more upon hearing these words, eyes closed, still shaking her head.

"I can't…" she repeats as breathlessly.

And when the next contraction comes, she doesn't sit back up like she had been doing so far, crushing Peter's hand instead, with so much force that he wouldn't be surprised if he ended up with a broken finger and he can't care less. She's panting frenetically, clearly trying to stop herself from pushing, though he knows it's nearly impossible; she ignores her doctor's almost severe demands to bear down, pointing out the obvious and saying that she won't be able to stop herself.

But leave it to Olivia to prove her wrong.

"Olivia," Dr Stewarts reprimands her when the cramps stop. "Your body is still pushing the baby out. You are only making this harder and more painful for you, don't fight it."

Peter's eyes leave Olivia's face long enough to meet the nurse's gaze, and she gives him a meaningful look. He nods almost imperceptibly before turning his eyes back down to Olivia, bringing his free hand to her sweaty forehead, gently pushing wet strands of hair away. She opens her eyes to look at him then, and she almost instantly lets go of his hand to grab his shirt, pulling him down closer to her, her eyes quietly pleading him again.

"Olivia," he says softly and as steadily as he can, his fingers still caressing her skin. "I know you're tired, and I know you're hurting…but you need to push."

But she's shaking her head again, and she's beyond hurt, she's beyond tired. She's almost delirious with exhaustion and pain, every possible kind of pain. "Peter…" she almost chokes out his name, tugging at his shirt. "I can't let her go…"

He can feel the change on his face as it constricts, and he knows he must be mirroring her expression almost perfectly.

Of course she wouldn't possibly allow this to happen without fighting it, some way or another. She doesn't simply give up, and she cannot fathom the fact that she has to let her daughter go.

But what could she possibly do?

' _She's already gone'_ , a voice whispers in his ear, and for a second there, he almost repeats the words to her. But he doesn't. She doesn't need him to remind her of the truth; she doesn't need the truth, because the truth hurts too much. But he cannot lie to her either, cannot tell her that everything will be alright, that _she_ will be alright, because the last thing he wants to do is lie to her right now.

He goes for the only alternative he's got, then.

His fingers still gently brushing her skin, his eyes firmly locked with hers, he whispers: "Do you remember when you said you couldn't wait to see who she would look like the most?"

She shakes her head then, her face distorted in agony, trying to speak but she just can't, and he knows she's not shaking her head because she doesn't remember, of course she remembers, it hadn't been so long ago. She's shaking her head because when she had told him that, she had imagined their baby to be alive and breathing.

He knows how he sounds, but he's not doing it to be cruel, and so he keeps going. "You said the only request you had was that she didn't get my nose."

A broken sob escapes her then, but she still doesn't look away, and she starts to nod; he knows what she's thinking about, even though she cannot say the words. After she had said this, he had pretended to be offended, until she added, quite honestly: _"I hope she has your eyes, though. You have the most beautiful eyes."_ And he had silently hoped she would have hers.

Just like the sound of her laughter, it is one thing they will never know.

He cannot tell her that either, and so he whispers instead: "Let's find out, okay?"

After a few more excruciating seconds, she nods again. "Okay…" she breathes out, trying to swallow back her tears. "Okay…"

As he reaches for her hand still holding onto his shirt, she gets that look in her eyes, that look she gets when the pain starts to tear her apart from the inside again. He helps her sit up, one of his arms bracing her while she goes back to squeezing his fingers with incredible force, and the nurse counts for her as she bears down with all her might.

The doctor had been right. Two more pushes is all it takes for the baby to come out.

Quietly.

The silence that takes over the room then is the most unbearable of all. There is no scream. There is no ' _Congratulation, it's a girl!'_ , and he thinks that it is actually very thoughtless of them; Olivia _has_ just given birth after all, she deserves recognition for her effort and pain. But her head falls back against his shoulder, then, and the silence is broken by her heartbreaking sob, a hand already up to her face, and he doesn't think anymore.

Time almost seems to stop at that instant, as he almost instinctively averts his eyes, incapable of keeping his gaze on her, and he has to look at the other end of the bed. Oddly enough, his eyes don't stop on the nurse, who is the one holding his child; no, his eyes stop on the doctor, just when she looks up at one of the walls, and he follows her gaze. She's looking at the clock, mentally noting the time.

It's 6:02 AM.

And in this one surreal, suspended instant, everything suddenly makes sense. He has gotten the answer to the question that had been resonating in his head all night long. _Why?_

_WHY WHY WHY?_

It was 6:02 AM when Walternate first activated the Machine over there, and Walter had told him at some point that 6:02 AM was also the time when the Other Side had been destroyed, when _he_ had destroyed it. When his son had died. That's why.

A daughter for a son.

And he thinks of Walter again, of one of these times when he hadn't been rambling but had been eerily lucid, telling him about how Nature was all about balance and unbalance.

But the nurse speaks, then, and Walter slips his mind.

"Do you want to see her?"

Again, he doesn't look at the nurse, turning his gaze back to Olivia. Part of him, that same part that still believes this is not really happening, almost wants to say no.

What's the point? It won't bring her back.

But Olivia drops her hand and reopens her eyes, nodding her answer because she's still unable to speak, eyes glued to the other woman who is now walking around the bed. She then delicately puts her in her open arms, and Peter hears her murmur to Olivia: "She's perfect." And that is all the congratulations she needs.

She hasn't wrapped her up completely in a blanket like they usually do to newborns, and he instinctively understands that she hasn't done it so Olivia could see and touch more of her; and that is what she does. Her trembling hand comes to rest on her chest, gently tracing her skin, and more tears roll down.

"She's warm…" Olivia somehow manages to say through her tears.

And that voice is back again, that nasty little voice.

' _Of course she's warm, she was still part of you a minute ago, but soon she won't be anymore, she'll never be warm again.'_

The thought dies in mind, though, because he is now looking at her, too, looking at their daughter.

And she's perfect, indeed.

Even if he knew that babies only five weeks away from being due were basically 'ready', anatomically speaking, he is still shaken to the core by how _perfect_ she is. In other circumstances, even being born now, she would have lived. She would simply have been a little peanut.

He doesn't even realize that he has reached out for her until his fingers touch her face, his thumb delicately brushing her cheek, and her skin is so incredibly soft.

"She's beautiful," he whispers, and then his hand moves up, fingers sliding through Olivia's hair as she drops her head, until her face touches her daughter's.

"I'm sorry, baby girl…" she murmurs against her skin, overwhelmed by her sorrow.

_It's not your fault, it's mine_

That's what he should say, because he knows.

A daughter for a son.

And he finds himself almost praying at that instant, as Olivia rocks their sleeping angel against her and cries; he prays to Nature, or to God, or to Fate, whichever force is responsible for this.

_I get it. We're even now, we're even. Please, no more._

Unfortunately for him, Nature, God, or Fate, are not the only seekers of balance, in this case, seekers of revenge. To some, a child for a child isn't enough.

He has destroyed a Universe, after all.

Someday, someone will destroy his.

_(September 2014)_


	19. XIX.

**XIX.**

Peter wakes up to the strangest smell of all…or at least to one he wasn't expecting to smell at what he knows is a very late hour –or a very early one.

His eyes aren't even open yet, but he can also hear the noises, now, discreet but definitely there. It's the sound of drawers and cabinets opening and closing, of silverwares clinking against pots.

For a floating, confused moment, he is filled with puzzlement, overwhelmed by that strange feeling you sometimes get when you wake up, unsure of _where_ you are. When he opens his eyes, he almost expects to be in his old room, the one he had when he shared a house with Walter, the old man obviously experimenting in the kitchen again.

But he instantly recognizes his and Olivia's bedroom, her side of the bed unmistakably empty, and the clock on the nightstand confirms that it is indeed way too late –or too early- for such smells and noises. It's 2:14am, and whatever Olivia has decided to bake at this ungodly hour, it involves melting chocolate.

He knows he could very well go back to sleep, having no doubt that she can keep on handling herself just fine, but he finds himself already craving for the sight of her, like he often does, especially after days like this one when they've barely seen each other.

It had been a hot, incredibly humid and sticky day, like the rest of this endless month of July. For once, Olivia hadn't minded being stuck with paperwork, happy to stay in a building with air conditioning instead of being out on the field with him, in the heat –as if he would let her come anyway (or at least he likes to think he could influence her decision). Being the thoughtful boyfriend that he is, he had gone to the grocery store after work, because they needed to eat and were almost out of toilet paper. When he had come home around 9:30, Olivia had already been fast asleep, and he had quickly joined her after a cool, blissful shower.

Naturally, she is now up at two in the morning, baking.

Still a bit groggy with sleep, he makes his way to the kitchen, and her back is the first thing he sees as she's busying herself at the counter. Well, actually, her beautiful, endless legs really are the first thing he sees, but to his defense, all she is wearing are panties and a stretchy shirt; he shamelessly stays back longer than necessary, happy to just look at her. He finds it funny –and fascinating- how from this angle, she doesn't look different at all.

She's staying healthy, healthier than she's been in years according to her, and even keeps on working out, the easy-on-the-body kind of workout that is just good enough for someone like Olivia, who always has too much energy to burn. Her body is lean and nothing short of gorgeous if you asked him, disheveled hair flowing down her back.

And then she moves slightly to stir her melting chocolate, revealing part of her round stomach hiding under her shirt, and she looks even more gorgeous.

"You know, it's rude to stare," she says then without even turning her gaze to him, moving back to measuring ingredients, he guesses.

"So is baking at 2am when some people are trying to sleep," he answers lightly, walking to her at last and pinning himself to her back, one of his hands automatically coming to rest on her belly, and he buries his nose in her hair.

"I can't possibly have woken you up," she says without a single twinge of guilt in her voice. "I made sure I wasn't too loud."

For a second, he almost tells her about how he initially thought it was Walter in the kitchen. He almost asks her if she remembers that time when they had awoken in the middle of the night to find him making pancakes, and how he had ended up falling asleep on his stool, face on the counter. He knows she remembers, just as he knows she would gladly reminisce about Walter with him. But he stays quiet instead, because even after two years, it still hurts to think about him, to think about how he is locked up again.

He can't help but always remember his dad's terror that one time years ago, when he had thought he was going back to St. Claire's for good. How must he be feeling, now, being imprisoned for life? Being considered to be the evilest man in the Universe.

Instinctively, he buries himself a little more against Olivia, his body fitting hers perfectly, nose nuzzling her neck, and just then, the baby provides him with a very welcomed distraction, as he feels her move somewhere deep beneath his hand.

As always, she erases the pain of the past for a while, to engulf him in the wonders of what is to come.

"Did you feel that?" He asks quite dumbly with a stupid grin, raising his head to look at her profile, and she smirks, still focused on her task, letting out a chuckle that sounds more like a snort.

"Yes, Peter, I felt that."

He doesn't apologize for his stupid question, because she knows it's genuine –and that it's 2am. He usually tries not to get overly cheesy when it comes to her current condition, but this is one of these times when he simply cannot fight it. And so, he tenderly rubs her belly, hoping for more movement, bringing his smiling lips to her ear.

"I think she was saying ' _Hi daddy!_ '" he whispers, and Olivia shakes her head against him, before breaking an egg in a bowl.

"Uh uh," she contradicts him, breaking another one. "She just wants me to eat more chocolate." And on those words, she drops the broken eggshells in the sink and brings a square of chocolate to her mouth.

He pulls away slightly again to look at her; she is still smirking a bit mockingly as she chews, adding a third egg and starting to whip them up enthusiastically with a fork. "Honey, you _do_ know that it's not how the placenta works, right? She doesn't _really_ taste what you're eating."

She stops her whipping movement to nudge him with her elbow, finally looking up at him to give him a look, lips pursed. "Thank you, mister Smartass, I know that. But I also know she loves it when I eat chocolate, enough to make me crave for chocolate cake in the middle of the night. It's the endorphins. She feels it whenever I'm happy, remember?"

And she gives him another kind of look, then, raising her eyebrow, before pushing a piece of chocolate against his lips, which he instinctively opens to let her drop it in his mouth. As his thoughts immediately turn back to the conversation she's referring to, she turns back to her eggs.

She's talking about that one time he had asked her what he still believes were not unusual questions for a man to ask when it comes to sex and their pregnant girlfriend. He had been educated enough to know that the baby couldn't get physically _hurt_ or anything, but he had felt a bit awkward thinking about what she might _feel_ , and since Olivia obviously had emphatic abilities when it came to their child, he had asked her. Which in turn had led her to look at him as if it was the most endearing thing she had ever heard.

" _She doesn't_ know _what's happening,"_ she had reassured him with a bit of a tease in her voice. " _She is literally in a bubble of amniotic fluid. All that she knows is that I suddenly get_ very _happy and that I exceedingly think about you. Plus, I think she loves the rocking motion._ "

He had decided it was wiser to stop the conversation right there.

Letting the chocolate melt against the inside of his cheek, he brings his face back down to the side of her neck, pressing a loud kiss there that causes her to wiggle in his arms, interrupting her whipping again.

"Well, I still think she was just happy to have me join the baking party," he smiles against her skin. She smells almost as sweet as the chocolate tastes in his mouth. That's another aspect of her pregnancy he enjoys a lot; she's just _sweeter_.

Physically speaking, at least. Otherwise, she's just as ruthless with him as ever.

"Think whatever you want," she breathes out with a ' _I know better'_ tone.

He raises his head again. "That's it. I don't think I should give you what I bought you earlier tonight if you're going to behave this way."

This makes her turn more fully in his arms, still smirking. "Nice. Now you're trying to bribe me. I can tell you're going to be great at parenting." He just blinks at her, and she narrows her eyes. She's too curious to win that game. "Fine," she sighs. "What did you buy me?"

It's his turn to smirk, as he lets her go to go grab the plastic bag he had left near the front door. He takes out what was inside, before going back to the kitchen area. He holds it out to her, and she takes it, eyes still narrowed, lips pursed. She looks at it for a few seconds, before glancing up at him.

"A picture frame?"

He shrugs as if it wasn't that important, but he knows how much it is to him, and he suddenly wishes he had more than boxers on so he could put his hands in his pockets.

"A cheap picture frame," he notes, trying to keep the conversation light. "I thought we could put a picture of her in it once she's born, you know, one of these corny shots people do of their naked baby in a cup or something."

But she's looking graver already, though he doesn't understand why. He loses his smile then, resting his palm on the fridge's door since he doesn't have any pocket to hide it in.

"It was on one of these display shelves they've got in the store. It's just…I looked at the frames and realized we've been together for three and half years, sharing this place for over two years, and we don't have a single picture around."

She's definitely tensed now, avoiding his eyes as she hands the frame back to him. "Well, we haven't exactly had a lot of free time to joke around and take pictures," she says quite tersely, before turning back to her bowl of eggs.

"Everyone has busy lives," he counters softly. "People make time."

She doesn't look at him, and simply pours the eggs in with her flour and sugar, beating it all up with even more energy, her cheeks slightly flushed.

"Olivia?" He tries to get her to focus back on him, but she's stubbornly ignoring him. "Why is this upsetting you?"

"It's not upsetting me," she says, but she's beating her batter with so much force he can hardly hear her answer over the sound of it.

"You're obviously not okay with it," he insists, and she stops abruptly, giving him a dark, warning look.

"Just drop it, Peter." She says harshly, her blush a darker shade of pink now. She quickly turns back to the counter, turning the fire off under the melted chocolate.

Maybe he should drop it, let it go, and go back to bed. Her extreme reaction might simply be due to her hormones, but this has to be a sensitive subject in the first place to upset her that way.

He knows she didn't have any picture frames either in her previous apartment, though she does have a photo album, mostly filled with pictures of Rachel and Ella. He had always thought she had simply never taken the time to do something as trivial as putting pictures in frames and hanging them on her walls. It is also true that she didn't have that many reasons to do it before.

He had thought having a baby together was a good reason for them to start. But it's obvious he's not the only one having issues in this area.

Which is why he decides not to drop it. The only thing he drops is the frame, putting it down against the fridge, before going back to stand behind her, gently placing his hands on her hips, resting his cheek against the side of her head.

"You know, I've never been that fond of picture frames myself," he tells her softly.

She doesn't deny it this time. She just keeps on doing what she's been doing, though the batter is pretty smooth by now. But she does speak, eventually.

"I remember you had one of you as a kid in your room, when you shared the house with Walter."

It usually stings more when they mention his name, or the brief time when the three of them practically lived together. But Walter has pretty much been on his mind ever since he has woken up, and knowing where this conversation is about to go, it's actually appropriate for her to say his name.

He can't help but smile a little, though, bringing his lips closer to her ear. "Really? You honestly see me as the kind of guy who loves to keep pictures of himself as a little boy in his bedroom?"

She lets go of her whip then, finally looking back up at him, and she feels more relaxed already. "Walter put it in there." It's not a question, but an observation, as if she's just realized how obvious that was. Her eyes are softer, too, because she _knows_ how much it costs him to talk about this.

Peter nods slightly. "He put it in there shortly after we moved in. I thought about just hiding it in a drawer, but he was so ridiculously happy to ramble about it whenever he would come and wake me up in the middle of the night for whatever reason. So I just left it there."

Almost unconsciously, she has turned in his arms again, her hands resting on his sides now as he wraps his arms loosely behind her; he loves the soft pressure of her stomach against him. She's simply looking up at him, waiting patiently for him to continue.

He sighs softly, before admitting: "Ever since I was a kid, I've had a tendency to associate those kind of pictures with hypocrisy and lies, like…they were all like those fake family portraits they put in it for display. We were only pretending our family was happier than it really was." He doesn't miss the understanding in her eyes, and he knows he has struck a nerve. He just keeps on going. "I guess it doesn't help either when you know it's not really _you_ on most pictures, all around your house."

Her touch on his sides is already firmer, and she's now displaying what he mentally refers to as her 'empathic face'. She seems more upset by this than he expected her to be, but after all, her hormones _do_ make her a bit more emotional on occasions.

"Did you know?" She asks then, almost in a whisper. "I mean, I know you don't remember much from your childhood, but…Did you know it wasn't your world?"

He shrugs slightly. "I think I did. Obviously, they did a good job at making me believe _this_ was my world, and I guess that's why I repressed so many memories, but ever since I've learned the truth, I've thought about it a lot." _Excessively_ , he almost says, but he doesn't need to say it out loud, not to her. "Things I thought were just my mind messing up with me, like details on toys or team names, I realized they were true and…yeah. I knew."

Both her hands are on his bare chest, now, one of them resting upon his heart, an instinctive gesture of comfort, and so he keeps on talking, because as always, it actually almost feels good to share this with her, to know she cares.

"I remember my mom finding me staring at the wall of pictures she had in the house, once, and of course, she started pointing at them saying ' _Remember this…_ ' and _'Remember that one time…'_. When I calmly told her I didn't remember any of these, but that it made sense since it wasn't me on those pictures, she quietly freaked out. She tried to convince me otherwise, and I guess I eventually let it go. But the next day, all the pictures were gone. All the pictures of… _him_. She said we simply needed 'newer' ones, and that the next weekend, we would get Walter to take some with us. But Walter already wasn't really around anymore, so she ended up taking dozens of pictures of just me, like the one you saw in my room. I came to pretty much hate her camera, and everything she framed."

He is just grazing the surface of what he used to feel when he was a kid. Even when he had pretty much run away from home as soon as he had been enough to do so, he hadn't brought a single picture of his mother with him, and hadn't had any reason himself to keep photographs of all the people he met around the world.

Because it had been all _lies_ , first his parents', then his own, as he conned everybody around him, and he did it so expertly.

He suddenly finds himself thinking about another period of time he usually tries to completely forget, that time when he had been the one being conned. It just comes to him, the memory of the day when the Other Olivia had dragged him into a photo booth, and she had been so happy; she had been laughing when he had mostly felt uncomfortable. At the time, he had thought it was simply because of his old dislike for pictures, but he knows, now.

He had felt her lies, felt that this joyful woman who had been grinning at the camera couldn't possibly be the woman he had fallen in love with.

He pushes the memory away, along with the guilt that always comes with it, focusing back on the Olivia who had gotten upset a few minutes ago when he had offered her a simple picture frame.

He moves his hands, then, slightly pulling away from her to tenderly rest them on her round stomach, offering her a small smile. "I just thought…we should have pictures of her. Of her with us. Because it doesn't always have to be about lies and hypocrisy. It can just be about…us."

She remains quiet, though her cheeks are a bit pink again, and her eyes shine a little too brightly. She looks away then, before turning around once more to face the counter, briefly bringing a hand to her face, wiping her nose in a way that is telling. And he knows that she's bracing herself for what she's about to say. Just as quietly, he wraps her in his arms again, cheek against cheek. She grabs the pot of melted chocolate and start adding it to the rest of the batter.

"We actually had one of those family portraits in our house when I was little," she says then, her voice remarkably steady and composed, both their gazes fixed on the bowl as dark brown meets beige, creating mesmerizing ripples of colors. "It was on the wall, right next to the entrance door. At first, it was one of us with our mom and our dad. But when he died and our step-father moved in, he asked mom to take it down. And it wasn't even that bad at the time, you know. He didn't drink that much yet, and mom wasn't too sick. But I hated him from day one, just because…" She stops, busying herself by trying to get all the chocolate off from the inside of the pot.

"Because he wasn't your dad," he softly finishes for her, as she puts the pot in the sink, now grabbing a wooden spoon.

"Yeah…" she says in a tensed voice, starting to stir the mix, slowly. "Anyway, it got worse when I practically begged my mom not to take the picture down. I was young, no more than seven I think. And so he decided that instead of having her take it down, we should take a new picture, with him on it." He manages to snuggle a little closer to her, nuzzling her cheek, knowing how hard it is for her to be admitting this, but also aware that it will be as liberating for her as it had been for him. "So our mom dragged us to a professional photographer, all dressed up and everything."

He can only imagine the face she had been making on that picture. And as if she had just read his mind, she adds: "I didn't want to smile, and yet, I had this huge, fake grin on the final shot. And I can still feel his hand on my shoulder; he dug his fingers in there so hard, I remember having marks on my skin for a few days after that. And I can still hear him whispering: " _Smile, Olive..._ ', and it sounded more like a threat than an encouragement. So I smiled."

She's still stirring slowly, even though there is nothing left to be mixed at that point, except that she needs the movement to keep on going; his heart is beating painfully fast under his ribs, and he's sure she can feel it against her back. He only tightens his hold around her.

"Two years later, I shot him. I shot him just when he entered the house and…I shot him twice, so there was a lot of blood. And I remember just sitting there on the floor afterwards, not staring at him, but staring up at that picture on the wall, because it was splattered with blood, too. And I remember thinking: ' _Good. Now it looks accurate_.'"

Peter has closed his eyes and dropped his head, pressing his lips to her neck again, wanting nothing more than to absorb all the hurt of what she's been through. She has raised a hand, burying her fingers in his hair, as if to bring him even closer to her.

"I'm sorry…" he whispers against her skin. "I shouldn't have bought that frame."

But he feels her shaking her head; her hand leaves his hair as she moves, turning around in his embrace, and he opens his eyes. Hers are bright, and their rims are slightly red, but she doesn't cry. She brings both her hands up, then, cupping his jaw and offering him a sad smile, shaking her head a little.

"No, you're right." She says softly. "This shouldn't be about how our families messed us up. This needs to be about how we'll make sure we won't mess her up."

He can't help but let out a small chuckle then, not because he's amused, but because he loves her too much. "Spoken like the true optimistic I know you are," he says just as quietly.

She cocks her head to the side, then, pursing her lips a little. She stares at him for a few seconds, almost as if studying him, before finally saying with that same soft voice: "You know, just because I don't get overly emotional about everything happening to us right now, it doesn't mean I don't have hopes and dreams for her. For us. For… _our_ family. Because I do." And he just loves how slightly embarrassed she looks when she lets herself admit how deeply she cares.

His hands have found their way back to her stomach, and he offers her the sweetest smile. "I know you do."

She lets go of his face and bends down to grab the frame still on the floor, straightening up with a small huff. She looks at it for a moment, now studying the fake family portrait in it, and part of him still feels like putting it in the trash.

But when she raises her head again, she's smiling softly, and the urge vanishes.

"Go put it in her room," she eventually says, nodding shortly, as if to herself, offering the frame back to him. "Hang it on the wall. We'll put a picture of her naked in a cup. Or something."

But he chooses to ignore the frame for the time being, leaning in instead, and one of his hands leaves the firm and comforting curve of her stomach to cup her cheek as he kisses her softly, tenderly, lovingly.

And her hopes and dreams taste sweet.

_(July 2014)_


	20. XX.

**XX.**

Peter walks home.

He doesn't really know why he doesn't simply hail a cab; after all, it is clear from Olivia's text that she would like him to get there sooner rather than later.

' _Can you come home? We need to talk.'_

' _We need to talk_ ' never is a good sign, in any kind of relationship, and quite honestly, he feels like she could spare him the additional worry at the moment. But he is aware of the fact that she wouldn't have asked him to come if there wasn't a good, valid reason. It doesn't make him feel any better. Nothing can really make him feel better at the moment.

It's one hell of a week.

He guesses that's why he has decided to walk the few miles home, hands buried in the pockets of his pea coat, chin against his chest, his face partially protected from the icy breeze and light snow slowly falling from the sky. He's in a crappy mood, and he doesn't want to let it out on her. Walking in the cold seems to slow his brain down a bit, as he focuses on each step he takes and the little cloud of steam his breath forms in the air.

But as much as he tries, the birthday card refuses to leave his mind.

It's been three days since he has received it, though, one would think he should start getting a grip by now. But just like the two previous years, his dear Father's annual piece of mail has made a complete mess out of him, an _angry_ , guilt-stricken, confused mess. The only reason why he doesn't get drunk again like he had last year is because he is a _mean_ drunk when he drinks in that state of mind, and thinking about the things he told Olivia that one time still makes him feel like the biggest jerk on the planet.

At times, he finds himself wondering how she still copes with him.

He _knows_ he hasn't been the nicest person to be around for the past three years, lashing out at her more often than he dares to think about –verbally of course, never physically, but words can be incredibly poisonous. She usually gives him the silent treatment when it happens, though he knows she could very well retort just as efficiently. She never goes that low, not with him. She knows he's hurting, and that's why she hardly ever complains, why she's always there, why she lets him cling to her sometimes a bit desperately.

Because sometimes, when the pain and the guilt are so strong that he can hardly breathe, let alone speak or open his eyes, the feel of her is the only thing keeping him afloat.

He finds himself walking faster, realizing that things might be more serious than he originally thought for her to _need_ to talk to him.

Fifteen minutes later, he's finally inside, brushing the snow off his hair as he takes his shoes off, before getting rid of his coat. He doesn't call out for her, his eyes roaming the place instead. He silently makes his way to the bedroom, stopping at the doorway, his eyes instantly stopping on her.

She's sitting on the edge of the bed, and although she almost immediately realizes that he's here, it only takes him a second to note how tensed she is. She's still wearing her work clothes, minus the jacket, though she looks generally _disheveled_. Both her hands dangle between her legs, and he realizes then that she looks nervous, as she unconsciously keeps on drumming her fingers together; her hair also looks like she has excessively run a hand through it. He takes all these details in during the second or two it takes her to notice his arrival.

When she turns her head to look at him, he definitely knows something's wrong, her eyes moving _through_ him and around him in a way that is sickeningly familiar. But she forces herself to bring her gaze to his face, and she looks incredibly pale.

"Hey," she says then, and she sounds strangely breathless.

But all he can do is frown, still not daring to move closer, only straightening up slightly. He feels more confused than worried at the moment, to be honest, because if something bad had happened, she wouldn't just be saying ' _Hey_ ,' would she?

"Olivia," he starts, and his puzzlement is clear in his voice. "Why are you scared?"

She's not scared, she's _terrified._ It takes a lot for her to get to that particular point, and he's not sure he wants to know what has caused her such distress, because he has no idea if he can deal with it. And yet, he needs to know.

She shakes her head briskly, "I'm not scared," she denies, but her fingers keep on drumming and her eyes are moving again, unable to stay focused on his face.

His patience is pretty much nonexistent these days, and he doesn't understand why she feels like she should lie to him about this, especially when it's so _obvious_ , and she knows she's not fooling him. But for some reason, her pride seems to be dominating right now.

"I know I'm glimmering," he points out in a slightly exasperated voice. "You get that…look when it happens."

She purses her lips, moving her hands to rub her palms on her knees. "I'm not scared," she repeats stubbornly, but she lets out a small, unamused chuckle then, nervously scratching her temple, averting her eyes. "I'm just…I guess you could say I'm a bit freaked out."

He doesn't think the time is appropriate for them to start discussing the semantic of these terms, so he decides to let it go and focus on the _why_ instead _._

"What's wrong?" He asks softly, trying to ignore his own growing edginess as she lets out a shaky breath, before standing up.

She's still not looking at him. She starts to pace, showing every sign of anxiety he has ever seen her display, a hand on her hip while the other is back in her hair. The look on her face only makes things worse, her whole body language almost screaming in panic, and it's quite contagious.

"Olivia, what is it?" he asks again, a little more firmly this time to get her to _stop_ pacing and look at him, his heart pounding now.

She does stop eventually, turning to face him; both her hands are pressed together, fingers against her lips, and she meets his eyes. Her hands drop, then, palms up, in a gesture of surrender and inevitability.

"I'm pregnant."

She says the words calmly, even managing to look more collected.

And for the first time in what must be months, Peter's mind goes completely blank.

He is in all honesty unable to do anything but simply stare at her and blink. He has heard the words alright, but his brain seems to have lost its ability to process their meaning.

"What?" He cannot help this reflex question, the stupidest of all, really.

She slowly wraps her arms around herself, and he notices then that she's shaking slightly. Her controlled mask crumbles, too, as her nostrils flare and her brow furrows, and when she repeats the words, they are hardly louder than a whisper. "I'm pregnant, Peter."

Maybe he really needed to hear her say it twice. Or maybe her obvious helplessness is simply too painful for him to just stay stoic any longer. Feelings and thoughts start to come back to him, though definitely numbed by shock. He briefly closes his eyes, shaking his head as if trying to clear his head, but it's hardly effective. When he opens his eyes again and looks at her, the crease between her eyes has deepened. She looks incredibly vulnerable and lost, hugging herself even tighter.

"Before you ask, I am sure," she says then in a shaky voice. "I didn't want to risk a false positive or negative with a test, so I went directly to my doctor; I had an appointment earlier today."

He remains quiet, though something huge is growing within him, compressing his chest and making it hard for him to breathe; he doesn't recognize the feeling. All he knows is that he's still unable to speak or even think properly, or to show any kind of reaction at all for that matter, and it is obvious that it's adding to her distress. He sees the growing tears in her eyes, her face contracting so hard now that it looks painful, and she shakes her head shortly.

"I'm sorry…." She whispers. "I know it's not….I know you're having a rough week, and I really didn't want to burden you with this on top of the rest, but I couldn't wait any longer, I needed to know. _You_ needed to know."

To _burden him_?

The words hit him like icy water being poured over his head, shocking him in a very different way, and somehow shaking him awake as his insides _hurt_ , because she looks so small and scared and yet she's fighting so hard to keep herself together, _apologizing_ to him.

Has he really been so busy feeling sorry for himself that he hasn't realized that something that important was troubling her? She has without a doubt spent more than a few days agonizing over this, rightly so, and he had been completely oblivious. And when he should be the one begging for forgiveness, she's being as selfless as ever, worrying about him more than she's worrying about herself.

About herself and the child she's carrying. _Their_ child.

_Pregnant._

The word suddenly booms in his head, and the unidentified feeling growing inside of him intensifies, goosebumps breaking all over his skin. His head is clearing up, though, and he's conscious enough to know that he's completely awestruck, not grasping it at all, but it doesn't really matter right now.

"How far along are you?" He asks then, barely noticing how his voice hardly carries his amazement. It mostly sounds hollow, which in turn causes her to swallow hard.

"Five weeks…" she breathes out, and she looks like she's expecting him to openly react _negatively_ any second now, still on the verge of tears.

But he realizes then that there is absolutely nothing negative in what he is feeling, and that is almost as astonishing as her news itself.

_Pregnant._

His amazement is so unexpected and in some way so _liberating_ that he would surely have laughed then if he hadn't still been too shaken to be able to react properly. Actually, his body is shaking a little too, now, and he forces himself to take a step towards her because he cannot possibly keep on letting her think that this is _bad_.

"Are you…Is everything okay? I mean, is everything going well?" Genuine curiosity and awe finally ring in his voice, and he can instantly see the change in her body language and on her face, as apprehension starts to morph into confusion.

She nods a little. "My doctor said the baby's healthy."

It hits him, then, the nature of what has been growing within him ever since she has said those first two words, those two words that are going to change everything; those two words that are already giving him back something he had lost the instant he had stumbled out of the Machine, branded _murderer_ for the rest of his life.

He's feeling _hope_ again.

And when you have been desperately swimming in the darkest waters for months and months, barely able to keep your head above the surface at times, and merely doing so because _she_ is the only thing keeping you from drowning, hope is the most incredible feeling in the world.

It brings colors back to your life.

Right now, he is mesmerized by the scintillating green of her eyes.

He feels his face break into a dumbstruck smile, and his voice is just as filled with sheer bewilderment when he says: "We're gonna have a baby."

Olivia looks even more dazed than him, except that _he_ is the reason behind her bemused state, and her look of total confusion only worsens when he walks to her. When she weakly unwraps her arms from around herself, it's clearly more an instinctive gesture than a deliberate decision, her body perfectly in sync with his, as it is his turn to enfold her into a warm embrace, holding her tightly, yet almost delicately. As he buries his face against her neck and breathes in more deeply than he has in ages, she loosely wraps her arms around him, still clearly in shock. When he exhales, the air comes out of his lungs in a long, relieved sigh.

He then becomes aware of the muffled, snuffling sound against his shoulder, where she has pressed her face, and he pulls away slightly to look at her. Her watery eyes instantly meet his, and his hand comes up to cup her cheek, his heart aching at the sight of her tears, but it barely dampens his vibrant exhilaration.

"What is it?" He asks softly, another stupid question without a doubt, because she has so many obvious reasons to be upset.

She shakes her head in his hand, her eyes roaming his face as her own features constrict again, and she simply looks baffled.

"You're…happy," she whispers then, as if she had thought she would never get to utter those words again, and more tears roll down her cheeks.

The pain becomes more acute as he stares into her eyes. He has been aware of what it must be costing her, to see him so lost and depressed for the past few years, to be the one keeping him together most of the time, but as he watches her being so _shocked_ by his genuine happiness, he suddenly realizes just how much she's been hurting for him.

He brings his other hand up to her face, burying his fingers in her hair, gently pulling her closer, and she closes her eyes. He presses a soft kiss upon her close eyelid. "I'm sorry…" he murmurs, and her own hands come up, wrapping her fingers around his arm as he moves his lips to kiss her other eye, tasting her tears. "I'm sorry…"

He rests his forehead against hers, then, eyes closed, allowing himself to feel unburdened even if it's just for this moment, letting this wonderful, indescribable sensation overpower him, sheltered from the rest of the world. It's only her, it's only him, and everything they can be and _will_ be.

He only reopens his eyes when he feels her hands move, her fingers leaving his arm to rest on his chest, and he raises his head to look at her. She looks calmer, though definitely overwhelmed, hundreds of questions and worries swirling in her eyes.

"We haven't even talked about having children," she whispers then, and it's clear that she hardly believes what she's saying.

It is true that they haven't discussed it, when most people would certainly have brought up the topic at least once after being in a relationship for three years. But once again, it's his fault, because ' _children'_ has become one of these incredibly sensitive topics ever since his Father had let him know that when he had destroyed his own universe, he had not only killed billions of people, he had also killed his son.

He had never met the boy, and to this day still doesn't know his name, but the envelope Walternate had sent him had been thick with documents, proofs of the Other Olivia's pregnancy and proofs that the baby had been born healthy after her pregnancy had been inexplicably accelerated. There had been DNA proofs as well, and a handwritten note from his Father explaining how he had used the baby's blood to activate their Machine. It had been all facts, and it had been painful, but it had been just _fact_ s, just one more number, a number who simply happened to have shared half his genetic code.

But at the very end of the file, there had been a picture. There had been a picture, and as Peter stared at the baby's face, all he had seen were Olivia's eyes.

And it hadn't been just the eyes. The baby had been young, no more than a few weeks old, and yet he had been a perfect mixture of Peter Bishop and Olivia Dunham.

What had been just facts had become pain like he had rarely experienced it. And every year on the boy's birthday, which sickeningly enough happens to be the exact same day Olivia had come to his house with a bottle of bourbon, his Father sends him a card, wishing his son a wonderful year, before pointing out the fact that he actually won't get to live this year because of him.

Indeed, Peter and Olivia have never talked about having a child of their own in the wake of his son's death. And yet, there they are, faced with the irrefutable truth.

Discussed or not, thirty-five weeks from now, they will have a baby. And it doesn't feel wrong, it doesn't feel wrong at all; it actually feels so right that Peter doesn't know if he wants to laugh or if he wants to weep. He will never forget what he has done, birthday cards or not, but this is not about his mistakes and his guilt.

This is about how much he loves her, and how much he cannot wait to experience this with her.

This is about second chances.

"Olivia…" he finally whispers, because he doesn't trust himself to be able to speak any louder, his eyes bearing into hers, and he brings his face down to hers again, noses touching. "You're giving me a family…" he murmurs against her lips, and it sounds like a ' _thank you'_ , causing her breath to hitch in her throat, her fingers digging into his chest. "You're giving me a family…"

He doesn't need to explain his words to her, she understands. She understands what it means to him, to the lost boy he once was, torn away from his world, and deafened by lies. She knows what it means to him as a man as well, as the man who had tried so hard to cling to her and to Walter, but the lies had been deafening that time, too.

There are no more lies, not this time.

It's only her, and it's only him, and everything they will be.

And as he slightly pulls away one more time to look into her eyes, he sees the change in them, genuine joy finally taking over everything else as this realization swallows her whole, too. Her eyes fill up with tears again, but these tears have the power to heal wounds, he knows. And then she smiles, and it is the most beautiful smile of all.

Just like her tears, her smile is full of hope.

_(February 2014)_


	21. 0. TURN BACK THE CLOCK

_(May 2026)_

'Happiness' had never been one his life's goals; it had never been one of hers either.

Happiness is such a fleeting feeling. It can grasp you when you least expect it, but it rarely lasts long. You learn to appreciate the bursts when they come, but Peter had never thought that happiness _had_ to be achieved. In any case, happiness is relative when one is burdened with so much pain, the way he and Olivia had been for so long, so long that neither of them even remembered when it had begun; somewhere in the middle of their fucked up childhoods, without a doubt.

He had never cared much about happiness. What he had come to rely upon, though, to cling to, was the feeling of stability he got with her. They had been so in tune with each other, in ways that might have been overwhelming to some.

To him, it had simply been soothing.

To have experienced this. To be lying in bed, perfectly quiet and still, doing nothing but stare into her eyes, and feel her staring back, their souls at peace for a minute. In that moment, it doesn't matter what has happened in the past, what will happen in the future, what hurts so deep it has to be buried, what is left untold. It doesn't matter.

She's everything.

…

He doesn't really know what stops him from climbing onto the blazing raft and let the fire scorch him as it scorches her coffin. Let the flame engulf him and burn him, burn him to the core and let him die. Consume his flesh and bones the way it's consuming hers.

He has nothing left.

…

Freckles.

Olivia had a freckle on the side of her left breast.

She had more than _one_ freckle on her breasts, of course, but this one had the particularity of being visible whenever she wore a dress with a surprisingly nice cleavage…which couldn't have happened more than four or five times in the past fifteen years. Every time it had happened, though, Peter had shamelessly stared, thinking about how comforting it was to know he was the only person in the world who was allowed to see –and enjoy- the rest of them. And that's what he had told her, once, his nose pressed into the soft flesh of her breast.

" _How nice_ ," she had said, amused. " _I'm married to a horny teenager."_

Another time, another night, one of laziness and slow love making, he had decided to count them all. Her freckles.

It had been in the early days of fall, he knows, as all over her nose and cheeks had been scattered the dots, which would sometimes fade nearly completely by the end of winter. There might have been a hundred of them on her face alone, and he could have spent the night kissing them all. But her body had been warm and supple under his, her fingers tracing shapeless drawings on his skin, and her face alone, though more than a lovely sight, hadn't been enough. Counting her freckles had seemed like a wonderful idea, one that had made her laugh in quiet amusement at first, but as his lips brushed their way from speck to speck, his turn to draw patterns on her skin, her chuckles had smoothly dissolved into sighs.

He had lost count, eventually, had lost the ability to keep track, because she hadn't been docile and compliant under him; she never was. She had been fire and she had been quivering flesh, offering him the relief of a hushed mind, having forgotten how to count so he could just feel.

Freckles.

Freckles are nothing but details. But aren't details the mere essence of love?

You don't love her because she's exceptionally brave or heartbreakingly selfless, because she's driven or beautifully vulnerable underneath it all. You may fall in love because of it, and fall in love over and over again through the years, but it isn't what you _love_ at any given moment.

You love the red mark on the bridge of her nose after she's spent too many hours working on files. You love the sound of the air coming in and out of her lungs as she sleeps. You love finding her hair on your clothes, and the smell of her on your pillow. You love every single detail of her face, even the ones she despises. You love the way she smiles, you love the way she looks, you love the way she _is_.

Just like grains of sand, each detail is precious and unique.

Details are all you have left once she's gone.

And once she's gone, just like a breeze blowing the sand away, details are the next thing to go.

…

Astrid kindly offers to stay with him for a while when she drives him back to their house

( _his house)_

and he barely shakes his head in negative. What for? Nothing can soothe his pain, certainly not people's compassion. He just hopes alcohol will have more effect on him than it has had so far, maybe force him into a drunken, dreamless slumber at least.

Peter can hardly breathe. And it isn't just a figure of speech.

As he sits there on the couch, so stiff and immobile, he feels like he's slowly suffocating. He feels grief's claws around his throat, squeezing his lungs, digging into his chest and heart, tearing the flesh apart.

It's too quiet. It's too _normal._

Nothing in his surroundings has changed. Dishes from their last dinner together are still on the table, because they had gotten distracted and that had been okay they could clean them in the morning.

Now she's dead and he cannot, _cannot_ move the plates, touch her wine glass.

He can't breathe.

And so he drinks. He swallows gulps of alcohol after gulps of alcohol, waiting for the numbness to come back, but it doesn't. She's everywhere, and every time he squeezes his eyes shut, she's there, too. Flashes, memories, and it's unbearable. Grief is one vicious, overpowering feeling.

She's still so real and tangible in his mind, years and years and years of life together having made her as much a part of himself as his own body. And yet, he knows that she is _gone_ , that he will never see her again, and that it is the way it is. That's where his pain lies.

In that excruciating longing for which there is no relief.

It's so intense that it surpasses the heavy weight of guilt. She died because of him, and maybe he should be curled up on the floor, weeping and begging for forgiveness. But he misses her too much to be able to think about anything but her and how badly he wants to _see_ her.

_Olivia_

Her name echoes in his brain, in every inch of his flesh.

_Olivia Olivia Olivia Olivia Olivia Olivia Olivia Olivia Olivia Olivia Olivia Olivia Olivia Olivia Olivia Olivia_

It's a mantra, it's a prayer, it's a desperate plea.

Surely this cannot be. There is no point in letting the pain of guilt overpower his raw sorrow when it is so obvious he will not have to live with the consequences. He's going to go to sleep and never wake up. His body will simply give up on its own, and his broken soul will drift away. Right.

This empty bottle won't do, though. He's gonna need more alcohol for sleep to take him.

He barely sways on his feet as he makes his way to the kitchen, drunk yet not drunk enough, keeping his eyes on the floor because she's everywhere, in every item they own, in every corner of the room, drinking coffee, heating up take-out food, moaning his name, downing a glass of whiskey, smiling at him. And keeping his eyes down works, for a minute. But when he closes the freezer's drawer after having found what he had been hunting for, his eyes fall on the drawing, still clipped to the fridge.

And he hears her voice, as clearly as he had that night, mere days ago.

" _That's you, and me, and the little baby that we're gonna have."_

She had smiled softly, and he had joked. He had joked because joking still is his defense mechanism. He had mastered the skill of keeping painful subjects buried so well that he had done it almost unconsciously, genuinely amused in a sweet way by Amanda's baby-sitting wishes. And Olivia had joked with him.

But then she hadn't. He remembers her, now, her back to him as she stared at the drawing. He remembers the sad longing in her voice.

" _She's a sweet little girl."_

His hopes for them had been real, that night. If life has taught him one thing over the years, it is that no matter how dark things get, there always is the occasional surge of _hope_.

As long as they were together, keeping each other's steady, there was always hope.

Peter reaches for her, for this smiling depiction of her, his fingers brushing her drawn face, as if somehow, he could cup her face in his hand and feel her warm, soft cheek against his palm one more time. And he _knows_ hopes weren't what had been been on her mind when she had looked at the picture, when she had admitted that she ' _thought about it_ ', wishing things were different.

It had been one of these rare times when they had been slightly off beat, and she hadn't pushed him. She hadn't pushed him when he started joking again, affirming that they _would_ have kids someday, hadn't pushed him later that evening either when she had admitted out loud what she had been thinking about all along, and he had joked some more.

' _When the world gets better_ ,' he remembers thinking, his body pressed against hers. ' _When the world gets better and we can try again, we'll talk about her, I promise. We'll talk about her.'_

But there is no more hope, no more time. She's just…gone. And with her, the opportunity to _talk about her_ has gone, too.

_I'm sorry_

Things should have been different. He should have been stronger for her. This shouldn't have become one of their taboos, not when they had been sharing the same burden. And yet, it had become the heaviest of all. He even remembers _when_ it had happened.

He had woken up a year exactly after Elizabeth's death, two months after Rachel's, and when he should have wrapped Olivia's curled up form in his arms and held her as long as she needed him to, he had gone to work instead. Because he _had_ to keep busy, he couldn't just take a day off like her, he had to move. When he had come back, a few hours later, she hadn't been in bed, where he had expected her to spend the day; the apartment had been empty, and he had found a note on the kitchen's table.

' _You know where I am.'_

It had been both a reassurance and a quiet invitation, asking him to come mourn with her on their daughter's grave. What she hadn't known, though, was that he had _tried_ to go there, over and over again during the past twelve months. He had never passed the cemetery's gates.

He hadn't joined her. And when she had come home, eventually, he had felt so shameful and weak that he had just…pretended. Pretended nothing was wrong. And she had let him.

She shouldn't have. He shouldn't have let his pain and guilt make her so hesitant to talk about what they once had, almost had.

_I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry_

She shouldn't have taken that bullet. She shouldn't have died because of him.

Peter does end up on the floor, back against the fridge, weeping into his knees; weeping his sorrow, weeping his guilt, weeping his regrets.

And as he cries for her, the way she had cried for him so many times, too many times, he feels her again. He feels her as she kneels in front of him, curling her fingers in his hair, and she presses her cheek upon the top of his head and holds him against her.

But when he reaches out for her, there is nothing.

Olivia is gone.

…

In the hollow hours of the night, when prolonged heart-wrenching sobbing and too much ethanol in his veins leave him completely spent and slightly delirious, that's when Peter sees her most clearly. He doesn't try and stop the endless flow of memories this time, doesn't fight it.

He embraces it, because it is all he has left. He opens his mind to her and everything she has meant to him, and that's how he finds himself lost into one of these memories he had kept locked up for so many years.

The simplest moments can be the happiest ones. They are also the ones that hurt the most.

There's no point in keeping this one buried anymore, as every reminiscence of her makes his heart bleed anyway.

And she's so beautiful, lying in bed next to him in all her glorious nakedness, the sheets rumpled over their feet. It's early. It's endless. He knows it's nearing the end of August. For one thing, the air around them is warm, but not too warm yet.

And she's as pregnant as she ever will be.

It's only _days_ before Death comes, he knows, but he ignores it, ignores it all as he simply drinks her in. Eyes closed, her peaceful face is slightly turned towards him as she lies on her back, the golden aureole of her hair wildly spread over her pillow. He knows she's not asleep. There is a small smile on her lips. As she basks in the purest light of all, the untarnished light of dawn, both her hands move slowly over the delicate yet very prominent curve of her stomach, up…and down…up…and down…up…and down…

He wonders if she's seeing these colors she has mentioned before.

When she opens her eyes and meets his gaze, her smile widens, and her hands stop their slow caress. Her lips move, then, as she murmurs a word. But the sound has faded from his memory. He remembers the word, though, and he knows her voice so well that his mind simply conjures it, and it echoes softly in the air, only a second after she has said it, adding to the ethereal quality of this moment.

" _Look_ …"

And he looks, as one of her hands comes back to rest on her round stomach, on one specific spot, and she starts drumming her fingers for a few seconds; she then places her hand lower on her bump, waiting. He watches and watches, waiting too, and just when he is about to look up at her questioningly, he sees it. The tense skin quivers and moves, rippling from a definite movement beneath it. When it stops, he finally raises his gaze to meet her twinkling eyes; she's practically grinning now, and she looks so serene and young and happy. He has no other choice but to smile, too, and it's his turn to speak, his words reaching their ears a second after they have escaped his lips.

" _Definitely a Fringe Event."_

When he moves, the mattress is soft and unsubstantial beneath him; it's like swimming into cotton. He swims to her, to _them_ , before pushing himself up on one of his arms, his other hand coming up to cover hers; with his eyes still locked with hers, he presses his lips upon her skin, right where there had been movements a moment ago.

He closes his eyes briefly, then, focusing solely on the guttural aching wave of affection he feels for his unborn child, murmuring that word he had been murmuring to her every day, ever since he had learned about her existence.

" _S'agapo…"_

When he feels Olivia's fingers in his hair, he opens his eyes again. Her smile is loving and soft, and when she speaks this time, there is no echo. There is no echo, because it isn't part of his memory.

Stroking his hair tenderly, she quietly tells him: "She has your eyes, you know."

Peter wakes up.

…

When Walter comes by in the morning escorted by two fully armed agents, only to start rambling a bit incomprehensibly and way too excitedly, Peter is not surprised.

After all, the old man is universally known for his inability to let the people he loves just be _dead_.

But when he splays the drawings over the counter and starts to speak of Olivia as if she were still alive, it's too much for Peter, whose heart has started to bleed even more profusely at the sight of her sleeping face; the accuracy of this drawing has always troubled him. It's simple, and yet there are too many details in it, and so much attention, along with a sort of reverence in the strokes. It has always given him the feeling that she had been drawn by someone who _loved_ her. Which makes absolutely no sense at all, since this drawing was supposedly made millions of years ago.

Little does he know at that instant that Ella is the one who will actually draw it within the next few weeks.

"Walter, stop," he interrupts his dad, and his next words get caught in his throat as he tries to get them out. "Olivia is dead."

Walter almost _smiles_ then, before saying what will change everything: "She won't be…Not then."

Peter doesn't want to listen, he really doesn't. But he's a heartbroken man with a hole in his chest; he's so desperate that he cannot _not_ pay attention to what Walter is suggesting. When his eyes fall on the other set of drawings, though, his blood turns cold in his veins as he reaches for the blueprints.

"The Machine?" The pain intensifies. "I turned that on fifteen years ago-"

He cannot say more. Not a day has gone by without him regretting stepping into that thing, because every horrifying thing that has happened ever since is a direct consequence of his choice, and now, whatever Walter has in mind, it involves using it again and he can't, he just can't. He barely hears what his deranged father says next…until he starts explaining how he believes to be the one who had sent the Machine back through time, to the past.

"Peter, you can stop the destruction before it occurs!"

What Peter feels then isn't hope –there is no more hope for him. It's closer to raw desperation.

"If that's the case, just don't send the Machine back," he finds himself answering. "Then we'll never discover it, and I'll never destroy the Other Universe."

Selfishly enough, he isn't even thinking about the billions people who perished because of him that day, or of his son.

All he can think is: ' _Olivia will never die because of me.'_

But Walter is categorical, this is not possible. He talks of paradox, of choices, and of consciousness brought from the past, and Peter has a hard time following his line of thought. His 190 IQ is so useless at the moment, because it cannot soothe his broken soul.

Walter, on the other hand, is almost humming with excitement.

"Don't you see? We can change everything. We can cheat the rules of time!"

His smile falters under Peter's dark gaze, the weight of everything he has caused by 'cheating' Nature's most fundamental laws in the past coming back to him. By refusing to accept his son's death, Walter had created a Crack, which in turn had led to the destruction of an entire Universe.

To the undignified death of a woman who had always given all she had to try and save even what couldn't be saved.

Especially him.

And now, Walter is telling him he can _change_ things. Save _her_.

But he cannot surrender to his pain, can he? He has seen what happens when you disrupt Nature, when you stop thinking rationally to think with your heart. And yet…

"Imagine the repercussions…" He cannot help but say, and they are both too aware of the gravity of his suggestion.

Walter's face crumples, and when he raises his trembling fingers to put them on his son's face, a gesture of comfort Peter can barely stand at that instant, he realizes that his dad _knows_ what he is feeling. Or maybe it is the other way around, Peter finally understanding exactly why Walter did the things he did.

One can go to unimaginable lengths to save a loved one. Another thing Olivia had proved to him, only hours after they first met, letting his crazed father drill a hole in her spine and put her half-naked into a rusty Tank.

The difference between Olivia and Walter had always been the motives behind their actions. Walter had done the unthinkable for very selfish reasons: to get his son back. No kind of love is entirely selfless, but in Olivia's case, it had been. She had rarely thought about the consequences it would have for her, putting herself through terrible ordeals to save the people she loved.

And now, it's Peter's turn to make a choice.

"There's no way of telling what the cost might be," Walter says then, and they both know it's a lie. Despite their grief, they _are_ geniuses, their brains making all the right correlations in a matter of seconds.

And really, it doesn't take a genius to understand what would happen if you went back in time and drastically changed the future.

You cannot exist if the timeline you came from never existed either.

But his existence is irrelevant at the moment, so utterly irrelevant.

Peter had realized years ago that he would willingly give up his life to simply make Olivia's pain stop. Though the memory of that day hasn't been unaffected by the passage of time, he still remembers it all too well. What he remembers the most is the feeling of his insides shaking with the force of her sobs; he remembers the quiet desperation in her eyes, as they stared into each other's souls.

If someone had told him back then that he had the power to make it stop, and that all it would take was his life, he would have done it.

There is no limit to what he is willing to do now, to make her heart start beating again. To make her breathe. To make her open her eyes, and maybe smile at him.

Yes. If there is one thing he might wish for, in exchange for his life, it is for one more smile.

When Walter speaks next, he knows there will be no turning back.

"It can't be worse than this…" he says, and Peter closes his eyes. "It can't be worse than this."

Peter had thought so, too, that time so many years ago, as they lay crying for each other with no pretense, simply unable to bear the other's pain. He had thought that if they could survive this, they could survive anything, as long as they were together, because things couldn't be worse than this. And in a way, he had been right.

But at the time, he hadn't known what it would feel like, to experience this life without her. And now she's gone.

Olivia is gone, and there is no more hope.

All there is left is a choice.

' _Be a better man than your father'_

And Peter will be.

This is not about him. This is about the Worlds, and about her.

Mostly, it's about her.

He had always known she would be his redemption.

"What would I need to do?"

…

When the time comes, there is no regret. In some ways, there is no more pain either.

And incredibly, there is a glimpse of hope, even if it's not for himself. But there is no regret.

He knows things could have been different, should have been different, _will be_ different; he knows there could have been less tears and more laughter. But that's alright, now.

It is somehow comforting to know he won't have to live each day with the fear of feeling her slowly slip away, the details inexorably fading from his mind, no matter how hard he clings to his memories of her.

He doesn't regret the pain either, for all the love he has received in exchange. There is something almost magical in having been loved by someone like Olivia, in having been loved the way she had loved him, and he knows without a doubt that it had been reciprocal.

When he finds himself back into the Machine again, back through time, she's the first thing he sees.

"Peter!" She calls out his name and her voice is filled with relief.

And she's smiling at him.

"Olivia," her name escapes his lips in a rush, and he can hardly believe that she's _real_ ; his heart pounds so furiously beneath his chest, pounds with gratitude and exhilaration, and every inch of his being seems to vibrate with joy. "You're alive!"

The sensation increases, then, the energy flooding through his veins, spreading in every cell of his body, and the feeling is familiar, primeval, inherent. He is so deeply entangled with the Machine that he couldn't stop himself from interacting with it even if he wanted to.

The moment has come for him to make his choice.

He doesn't even hesitate.

He stares right into her eyes as he changes the course of time, mixing his lasting feeling of grief with his intense relief, just _looking_ at her, alive and sound, and she stares back at him, the shadow of her smile still on her lips.

In his mind, he imagines her heart and his own, both bruised and broken, bleeding. And then he pictures them mending themselves, blending together, melding and healing, becoming one.

Two Universes, one heart, one soul.

The way they have always been.

And then, Peter isn't anymore. He simply ceases to be.

His entire existence is erased with a blink of an eye, with a breath of wind, and so are the memories of him, that mere seconds ago were still deeply engraved in all of these people's minds.

He has become less than the fleeting, intangible feeling one may get upon awaking.

He leaves his lover's heart as quietly as he has known Death to come at times, but he leaves her free of the throbbing ache of grief.

He was never there for her to grief in the first place.

All that he leaves in his wake is that serene feeling in her soul, inexplicable but _there_ , the certainty that comes with unconsciously knowing that somehow, somewhere, at some point, she had been loved by someone. She had been loved so strongly that this someone had given up everything so she could breathe again, live again.

Smile again.

She had been half of a whole, once. This knowledge will never leave her, rooting so deep within her, like a seed with thorns hiding in a corner of her heart.

Who knows. If she nurtures it with each passing day, she might remember his face, someday.

She might remember his name, and the smell of his skin.

Who knows.

Someday, she might just remember him.


End file.
